


The Angel of Notre Dame

by TheAnswersInTheWind



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (as a means of control), (in the villain), Abuse of Authority, Abuse of a vulnerable adult, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996) Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arson, Cas can speak to ghosts, Castiel Has Powers (Supernatural), Castiel Has Self-Esteem Issues (Supernatural), Castiel Has Self-Worth Issues (Supernatural), Conspiracy, Dead Mary Winchester, Dean Winchester is Protective of Castiel, Dean winchester is esmeralda, Emotional Manipulation, Gaslighting, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, No Sex, No Smut, Past Child Abuse, Psychic Castiel (Supernatural), Psychological Torture, Slow Build, Starvation, Torture, Wrongful Imprisonment, Zachariah is a Judge Frollo, food insecurity, ghost whisperer Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2020-12-14 16:27:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21018764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAnswersInTheWind/pseuds/TheAnswersInTheWind
Summary: Castiel can see and speak to ghosts.  When he becomes a ward of the state, the wicked Judge Zachariah forbids Castiel from ever leaving the sacred grounds of Notre Dame while exploiting Castiel's ability to spy on the Hunters, an underground resistance movement.AKA:The Disney's 1996 Hunchback of Notre Dame inspired Destiel Fic no one asked for where Cas is a ghost whispering Quasimodo and Dean is Esmeralda





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Supernatural was my first true fandom and this was the first fan fiction I ever wrote! (Then proceeded to let rot on my computer for like 6 years)
> 
> Now that SNP is in it's final season, it seemed appropriate to revisit this particular story, shine it up, and share it with fellow fans as we watch the end of an era.
> 
> This fic will be posted in two parts. The last third of this story needs A LOT of work, which may delay posting. I anticipate uploading each part about a month apart, maybe two - but no promises on this one, sorry!
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs for death of loved ones, arson, murder, flight of ideas, and abuse.

Prologue

(Castiel is 4 Years Old)

“Come on Cassie!” Gabriel called from the river. Castiel eyed the rushing water skeptically and scrunched up his nose. To his left, a cold hand rested on his shoulder.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of. Just do what Gabe and I showed you,” Anna smiled openly, miming swimming arms. “It isn’t all that difficult. You’re strong Castiel and it’s lots of fun!”

Castiel always believed Anna, Gabe not so much, but Anna was honest. At nearly five years old, Castiel knew that much. If Anna thought Castiel could swim then it was a done deal. Castiel approached the river, little white peaks cresting the surface. He shivered when the dark frigid water soaked his socked feet. 

“Castiel!” A panicked voice called from the bank. 

“Always the party pooper!” Gabe exclaimed.

Castiel turned to see his eldest brother Michael running toward him, the movement unbalancing Castiel’s numb feet. He slipped on fell hard into the icy water.

Castiel surfaced a half second later, his mind blanked by the sudden shocking cold of the water. The sound of heavy leather boots splashed across the shallows. Michael charged into the river and pulled Castiel’s small frame to his body. Fear melted from him as he was carried by his brother to the river’s bank. Winded, Michael held Castiel close and asked short of breath, “Why were you in the river Castiel? It’s November!”

“Gabe’n Anna were teaching me s-s-swimmin’. Today was gonna b-b-b-be my b-b-b-big t-t-test.” Castiel tried his hardest to speak clearly but he was shaking all over and he was so cold that he hurt all over too. Pressing his face into Michael’s coat, Castiel tried unsuccessfully to keep from crying. Gabe would laugh at him now. Crying was for babies.

Michael’s pace quickened, they were on land now. “You still see Gabe and Anna? Is there anyone else you see?”

Castiel shook his head no, “Lucy left us. She m-m-missed Raphael and M-M-M-momma t-t-t-too much so sh-sh-sh-she left. Anna and G-G-Gabe, they p-promised to s-stay though.” Castiel felt his eyelids droop, he was cold and tired. Michael’s fast heartbeat drummed close to his ear.

“Castiel, stay awake here buddy, hey, kiddo, Cassie! We’re almost back home okay, I’ll make a fire and we’ll get you warmed up!” Castiel thought that sounded nice. Maybe Michael would let him sit on his lap in front of a big crackling fire. And Papa could tell a story like he used to! Castiel wanted to do as Michael asked, he was a good boy, a good listener, better than Gabe or Lucy ever were. The shivering was tiring though and his eyes slipped closed.

*****

A softly hummed yet familiar melody eased Castiel awake. He still ached some but he was warmer now and burrowed closer to the person holding him in a cocoon of blankets.

“How is he?” Castiel recognized Papa’s voice.

“I think he’ll be alright now.” That was Michael talking. He sounded closer than Papa, right above Castiel's head. “We need to do something soon Father. I’m worried. What if they were trying to kill him?”

Castiel heard a wooden chair dragged across the floor and a bony hand carded gently through his dark wavy hair.

“Michael, I can’t imagine they were trying to hurt him. They’re children, his siblings, and they don’t feel the cold any longer. To them, today is like any other sunny day when you took them swimming.”

“He could have drowned! He nearly froze!”

“You’re not like Castiel and I, you don’t see them, hear them. Dammit Michael! It’s like they never died for us! Gabe and Anna are his brother and sister, _ my children_!” Papa’s hand stopped its soothing motion and his voice pitched with anger soured by grief.

“And they are dead!” Michael said, his voice firm as he pulled Castiel tightly toward his chest. Castiel let out a whimper and clenched his eyes closed tightly. Papa and Michael fought too much. It always made his heart beat harder inside him and his knees get shaky. Why did they always fight? Had they fought so much before mama and the others left?

Michael rocked Castiel gently, whispering softly, “Shhh, it’s alright Castiel. I’m sorry. You’re safe. Go back to sleep.”

After a few minutes Castiel heard Michael speak in a low timber, “I may not have the _ Sight _like you and Castiel, but surely you recognize we have to salt and burn them. We agreed to give all of them two years to find peace. Gabe and Anna still haven’t. It’s time that they were put to rest.”

“They are children. My babies. My little boy and girl.” Papa’s voice cracked and Castiel sleepily wondered if daddies cried. Gabe said only babies cried. 

“I know Dad. But we can’t lose Castiel too.” Michael’s tone was resolute. 

Papa’s reply sounded tired, so tired that Castiel nearly yawned in sympathy, “Let me try to talk with them first, Michael.” 

Castiel didn’t hear Michael’s response. Between the heat radiating from the fire at his back and the warmth of his big brother holding him tight, sleep drew Castiel away for the second time that evening. 

*****

“Cassie! Cassie! Wake up lazy bones! We gotta chat.”

“Give him a moment Gabe!”

Castiel blinked to see Anna and Gabe hovering over him. The early morning light streaming in through the window gave the ghost children a pale and transparent appearance. 

“Good! You’re awake, come on little bro, follow us.” Gabe took off towards the door of their little one room house.

“Oh, and don’t forget a coat!” Anna chided before following Gabe.

Castiel carefully untangled himself from Michael’s arms, leaving his eldest brother asleep on their rope bed. Castiel’s coat was hanging on a high hook, too far for him to reach so he grabbed a blanket from the foot of the bed and trudged out into the chilly November morning. 

“Cassie, we’re really sorry!” Anna started speaking very quickly, worried lines scrunching up between her brows. “We didn’t think about the temperature of the water, it’s different for us. We wanted to stay after… after we didn’t get better… we wanted to make sure you weren’t alone, to keep you safe while Michael worked and Papa mourned. Gabe and I thought we were helping you, but we hurt you yesterday, really _ really _ hurt you!”

Gabe rested a hand on Anna’s shoulder as diamond tear drops made their way down her cheeks. “What she’s saying, Cassie, is that we stayed around to help but Papa pointed out that we, well, we don’t want to make you join us anytime soon Cassie. So it’s time for us to go.”

“When will yous be back?” Castiel knew that Michael had left sometimes before everyone got sick but he always came back.

Anna made to hold Castiel’s hand but stopped midway. Her hand would be nothing but cold air on Castiel’s skin. “We’ll see you hopefully many years from now after you’ve lived a good long life.”

“Good bye Cassie, we’ll miss you baby bro.” Gabe put on a brave face and waggled his eyebrows. Holding Anna’s hand tightly they disappeared on the next wind. What they had said sunk in very suddenly for Castiel and he dropped the blanket, taking off after the wind which stole his brother and sister. Screaming and crying Castiel raced down the dirt path as fast as his short legs could pump. He stumbled on a pebble and fell, skinning his knees and scraping his hands. The pain didn't register as he was awash in fear and loss. 

Anna and Gabe were gone. They went to join Momma, Raphael, and Lucy in Heaven, a wonderful place that Michael and Papa refused to take him to. It was evening when Michael and Papa found him, bundled him up and carried him back home.

*****

Castiel was lost without Anna and Gabe. Papa was lost without Momma. Michael was lost in his job, too busy working in town trying to make ends meet. The entire country had been hit hard by a deadly plague two years back and the region had yet to rebound. Resources were scarce, people were hungry, and charity was rare.

Castiel didn’t say much. He didn’t play or ask for stories like he had before. He did however run away in the night and search the woods for his lost family members, convinced that if he looked hard enough he’d find’em, like some extra super difficult game of hide-and-seek. Michael would scold his baby brother out of fear. The young man searched each morning, his heart in his throat as he combed the dangerous and snowy woods surrounding their tiny farm in search of his silent toddling brother.

It was mid-January when the sound of horses startled Michael from his sleep. He registered movement from his father behind him but Castiel was nowhere to be found. Fear brought Michael to wakefulness but not quite quick enough. Thumps sounded on their wood shingled roof and cruel laughter rang outside. Horses made fearful sounds and Michael rushed to the door only to find it barred.

“Michael! The Roof!” his father called, but the heat told Michael all he needed to know without looking. Their home was on fire; the men outside were trying to kill them.

*****

Castiel woke up shivering in a hollowed log. This was one of his usual places, Michael should have been able to find him. It felt good to be found. It proved that Michael still wanted him around. Michael wouldn’t leave him. But this time no one had come. Castiel’s shivers deepened, his shaking grew more violent. He decided to wait, give Michael some more time to come.

Michael didn’t come.

When the sun was high in the sky, Castiel was very hungry and chilled to the bone. Trudging home through old snow, Castiel smelled the smoke. He ran from there, cold and hunger forgotten as he approached a black smear on the ground, the smoking embers of his house stark against the white of the snowy ground. Two figures lay out front: Papa and Michael. Castiel slowed to a walk. His breathing was hard, hands shaking. Papa looked like he was sleeping, but not Michael. Michael was painted in red. 

“The smoke got to Dad before I could get him out. I’m so sorry Castiel.” Michael’s spectral form came up behind Castiel as they both stared down as his lifeless body. Michael came to stand between his brother and his own body, kneeling down to look Castiel in the eye. 

“Look at me Cassie. I’ll stay with you until someone finds you, okay.”

“But you’re gonna leave too.” Castiel spoke in a low detached monotone. Sniffling, he rubbed his sore nose.

“I can’t stay Cassie. I’m sorry, but I just can’t stay.”

Castiel wanted to yell, wanted to scream that, yes Michael could stay. Gabe and Anna had stayed for two whole years, surely Michael didn’t have to go right away. But Castiel couldn’t find his voice any longer and fell back into old patterns. Lying beside his dead brother, Castiel pressed in as close has he could and cried into his brother’s nightshirt as fresh snow began to fall.

*****

It took hours before anyone made it up to the Novak’s farm. The mounted men had burned many farms that night and the death count was high. Rufus Turner’s gut churned as they approached what remained of a well loved one room log house. Everyone knew the tragic story of the Novaks, they had nearly lost the whole family to the plague, the father of the family, Chuck Novak, lost his mind after the death of his wife and all but two of his children. The eldest was a good lad, hardworking and loyal. Michael had been the very pride of the village, moving to Paris to study law in the years before the plague. Following the plague however, he’d given up his promising future to return home and support his living family members.

Then there was the youngest son. A quiet boy with a strange name who bore a haunted expression and intense blue eyes that seem to cut right through even the hardest of men. That child always seemed to know more than was possible to know, secrets men had died with somehow made their way past the little boy’s lips. While the boy gave Rufus the willies, he certainly didn’t want the child to have died in the night. 

The party of villages approached and Rufus made out two figures lying on the ground, covered in a light dusting of snow. As the men drew closer, Rufus’ heart plummeted to his stomach. The shape of a little boy was pressed to Michael’s still figure. Rufus dismounted and slowly approached the still forms on the ground.

He felt his breath catch for a second when he spied a slight shiver which caused a single tear to run down the tiny boy’s face. 

“Bring a saddle blanket!” Rufus called to the other men as he dropped to the ground and pried the small cold boy away from his brother’s body. Swiftly Castiel’s blood soaked clothing was removed and Rufus tightly swaddled the boy’s thin form before picking him up and carrying him to his horse. Through it all, the boy was unresponsive. Another man held the child while Rufus mounted and passed the boy up to him. The rest of the party members were loading the deceased Novaks onto a cart with the other charred bodies from neighboring farms. 

“What will become of him?” A young man asked, riding alongside Rufus.

“Only the Lord knows, but I pray better days ahead.” And with that, Rufus spurred his horse onward. 

*****

It seemed as if Castiel was always cold. The stones beneath his feet: cold. The bench he sat on: cold. The air around him: cold. The eyes that assessed him and the hands that passed him about: cold. Castiel had been so cold for so long that he jumped when a warm hand rested gently on his shoulder.

“How you doin’ baby?” A woman in black and white robes with dark skin and a round rosy face filled Castiel’s vision. He wanted to look away, to let himself grow cold and numb again, but the lady smiled at him and Castiel found himself enraptured. “I’m Sister Missouri. You stay right here now, alright? I have to help get the service started but right after I’ll come back for you. I’m sure you could use a hot meal.” She hummed a confirmation to herself before giving Castiel’s shoulder a pat and standing to speak with a priest. 

Bishop Jim Murphy could hardly believe the reports that had filtered into Paris. Nearly a hundred of farms burned, entire families murdered, and the dead, all brought here to Paris in a somber parade of carts to be interred in the crypts beneath Notre Dame. Why the dead were not buried in their villages with their kin Pastor Jim (as he preferred to be called – fond of his humble roots) could not say, but the city and outlying areas were terrified of the mounted men who came suddenly in the night and disappeared without a trace.

While all of that seemed rather suspect to Pastor Jim, he was too busy finding places to bury folks and writing a sermon to soothe his flock. He made sure, however, to speak with the first responders, the men from all the villages who found survivors and investigated the burned homes. This group was led by a rough but kind hearted man by the name of Rufus Turner.

“I am sorry Mr. Turner, but Notre Dame does not just take in orphans. I can refer you to some of Paris’ orphanages if you like.”

“Thanks for the offer Bishop, but there’s a darkness in this one. His whole family’s died and against all odds, this boy lives.”

Sister Missouri pressed heatedly into the conversation, “You can’t honestly be blaming a boy of four years for circumstances outside his control. Many families have been hard hit.”

Rufus stood gaping some at the woman’s boldness, “Forgive me sister, I do not blame the boy for anything. But I worry for him. Some of the men have heard him talking to the air, and he’ll say things, things he’s got no rights to know.”

The nun stood straighter and looked Rufus Turner in the eyes, “Plenty of children are imaginative and hold conversations with figures only they can fathom. Surely you had an imaginary friend when you were knee high. It should also be noted that the boy is quiet and people do tend to say things around quiet folk without even realizing it.”

Rufus took a breath before drawing closer to say in a whisper, “The boy knows secrets of dead men. Whether it’s a gift or devil’s curse, I wager that boy speaks to them that've past. His eyes unsettled all the families I tried to place him with. Even now the seats around the boy are left empty while the cathedral is packed everywhere else. Everyone gives that boy a wide berth. He has an aura around him I'd say, something powerful. The boy needs to be protected, that’s all I’m trying to tell ya.”

Pastor Jim had the urge to laugh at Rufus Turner’s assessment of the tiny boy. However, when he turned to see the child’s steely gaze laser trained on the air just over Jim’s shoulder, the Bishop had the uncanny feeling of a presence behind him. Turning to Sister Missouri, her stony expression spoke volumes. The boy was not ‘normal’, however the Church’s role in his upbringing had yet to be determined. 

Rufus left to sit next to the boy while the others started the service.

A mere five minutes into the proceedings, the doors of Notre Dame flew open. With great fanfare a procession of guards and over-acting paid ‘mourners’ flooded in, all lead by the honorable Judge Zachariah. If Bishop Murphey was upset by the Judge’s disruptive macabre parade, he gave no indication as he patiently waited for the Judge’s crowd to settle into the cathedral’s pews. With so many dead, the pews were all already filled except for the first few rows all around the child Castiel, as Rufus had pointed out only minutes earlier. The Judge seemed oblivious to any supposed aura around the boy and made for the very front row of pews as if they had intentionally been left for him. Rufus noted the small pale boy sat up ramrod straight, rigid as the Judge took the seat right in front of him. The dark-haired head cocked to the left as if listening. The child focused intently on the air just above the Judge.

Much to Bishop Murphey’s great relief, the rest of the two hour service proceeded without interruption. The good Bishop had briefly noted that Rufus Turner was attempting to hold the strange orphaned boy still about an hour into the service but had given up when an outburst seemed imminent should he continue to restrain the child. Glancing at the boy from the pulpit, the child appeared to be vibrating, his entire body shaking, tension in every line of his body, and his eyes still intent on the Judge. The choir prepared to launch into the service’s final hymn when a shrill voice cut through the monetary transitional silence, ringing through the cathedral’s crowded sanctuary and drawing every eye.

“WHY?!” The pitchy voice cried out. It was Castiel, the little boy with jet black waves and piercing eyes, now standing on the pew, hands clenched into tiny fists and tremors running through his small frame. “WHY DO THEY SAY YOU KILLED THEM?”

The Bishop quickly realized by the direction of the boy’s gaze, the question was not rhetorical or directed to a higher heavenly body. No, the child’s question was addressed to the judge.

It took Judge Zachariah only a second more to come to the same realization as the Bishop. He turned slowly and shot the boy a trademark grin before calling out, “Are the parents of this precious child present? This unruly behavior should be dealt with _ firmly_. All children of France should be taught how to behave in this sacred space.”

But poor orphaned Castiel had no parents nor family left to claim him. The angry burnt and bloody ghosts he saw filling every inch of the cathedral pointed fingers silently at the judge and whispered accusations in Castiel’s mind. Tears streaming down the child’s face he continued to yell out, “THEY SAY YOU SENT MEN, YOU SENT SWORDS! THEY SAY YOU KILLED THEM FOR MONEY! FOR POWER! FOR GREED!”

Zachariah flinched almost imperceptibly at the boy’s accusation, but it was there and Sister Missouri had seen it. The judge waved a hand and sent his guardsmen to clear out the cathedral, loudly suggesting that the boy was lost in his grief and knew not what he was saying.

Castiel however had not relented. Eyes clamped shut in agony and hands pressed to the sides of his head, nose bleeding sluggishly, Castiel screamed at the Judge through choking sobs, “WHY? WHY DO THEY STARE AT YOU WITH HATE? WHY DID YOU HAVE THE BAD MEN KILL MICHAEL AND PAPA?” 

The items on the altar began to shake. All present caught the movement of spectral figures in the corners of their eyes and felt the oppressive presence of a thousand angry souls, arms reaching outwards towards the judge.

As soon as the cathedral finally cleared of curious eyes the Judge grabbed Castiel by his arms and shook the boy vigorously. “Shut up brat, SHUT UP!” 

Rufus intervened, taking an anguished Castiel away from Zachariah’s grasp with the care one handles explosives. The child breathed out a sob before falling limp and the ghosts flickered out of view.

Jim Murphy and Sister Missouri rushed over. Standing in a way to block the boy from Zachariah’s view.

The Bishop addressed the Judge, “Lord of the Palace of Justice, whatever do you think you are doing to that child?”

Judge Zachariah straightened his clothing and wiped a hand across his perspiring brow, his eyes scanning the now quiet and empty cathedral. 

“The boy clearly speaks unholy thoughts and calls forth evil forces into a place of worship. He is either the spawn of Satan or possessed by a demon. In any case, I volunteer to do us all a favor and send him back to hell. Give the boy here.” Zachariah held out a hand, his expression expectant.

Astonished, Jim took a defensive half step back towards the child, “You plot against the boy here of all places Judge Zachariah?”

“Plot?!” the Judge scoffed, “Don’t tell me you believe the words of a raving brat! We just felt the evil he brought here! My conscience is clear!”

Assuming his full height, the Bishop loomed over the Judge, anger darkening his often genial expression, “You may be able to lie to yourself and your minions but that boy can see you for what you are. You claim he brought evil here but I remain unconvinced he is the one present to whom that guilt belongs. You cannot hide from him nor from the eyes of Notre Dame what you have done, Judge Zachariah. The eyes of Notre Dame see beyond your pious pageantry and you cannot deceive He who sees all sin.”

By the minute widening at the edges of the judge’s eyes, the Bishop could tell that for once in his life Judge Zachariah feared for his immortal soul. He knew the boy was innocent of all save for speaking truth; truths that should have been lost with the lives that those the horrible truths had taken. 

“Fine,” the Judge spoke after a moment of deliberation, “As an orphan, that boy is a ward of the state. I will see personally to his upbringing. However, as I am positive he is something unholy, the boy will stay here, hidden. He is not to leave hallowed ground. I do this for the safety of Paris and for the betterment of all France!”

Jim shortly nodded his assent as the Judge turned sharply to leave, flanked by his guardsmen. Pastor Jim sagged a bit when the cathedral’s doors bang shut. He may have saved the child’s life, however now the boy could never leave the cathedral, not while the Judge spoke for Lady Justice. In a moment Notre Dame became both a sanctuary and a prison. 

*****

The child was awake now, quivering slightly with silent tears dripping down his cheeks in the quiet of the sacristy. His hands were tightly gripping his messy dark curls and Rufus was worried the kid he held in his lap would soon pull out clumps of hair. Thank God for Sister Missouri who moved about the sacristy with purpose. Rufus was a man of action but when it came to inconsolable children found among the bodies of their only remaining family, he now knew he was rather useless. 

“Rufus was it?” Missouri pulled up a chair next to the man and child. Rufus nodded his confirmation before she continued, “Right. Go ahead and see if you can free his hands from that mane of his. Boy’s a powerful psychic if I’ve ever seen one and he surely has one monster of a headache after that little display. All that hair pulling can’t be helping.”

Numbly, Rufus ran his hand over the boy’s forehead and tried to pry small fingers from wispy dark locks, “What was that out there? You said he’s a psychic?”

Missouri hummed in agreement as she used a wet rag to dab away dried blood from beneath Castiel’s nose. 

Her eyes fixed on the boy in front of her, she spoke with a soft voice, “Best I can tell, he pulled the spirits he could see from some kind of in-between space into our own plane. Some travelling mystics are known for being strong enough to do it for one or two spirits, during seances and the like, but _ hundreds… _ and he’s a child at that.”

Rufus heard awe in Missouri’s voice and he couldn’t decide if he too should feel in awe or terror of the little kid curled up on his lap. Rufus continued to run his hands through the boy’s hair as it seemed to be having the desired calming effect.

Castiel was beginning to drift between consciousness and sleep when the Bishop rushed into the sacristy, a couple of angry ghosts on his heels. Castiel recognized a difference in this type of anger though, less fury over murder and more like Michael’s scared anger before Anna and Gabe left. The Bishop knelt before Castiel and placed a warm hand on his cheek, turning Castiel to look him in the eye.

“I’m am so sorry to ask my child, but all those things you said about the Judge, were they true?”

Castiel stared back sleepily for a moment. He didn’t want to answer, his throat hurt from screaming and his head throbbed after all the shouting of the many murdered souls. He almost turned away to seek the solace of sleep when he caught the encouraging gaze of a spectral blond lady sitting to the Bishop’s right.

She smiled kindly at him and spoke in a voice no other living body could hear, “Go ahead dear, tell the good Bishop what he needs to know. Then you can get some food and rest.” 

Pastor Jim watched Castiel’s gaze sidle slightly to the right of his shoulder and focus there. Once more, Jim got the feeling of a presence, but not the furious ones he felt earlier during the service. He watched with interest as the little boy seemed to listen and eventually nodded, concluding a conversation only he could be a part of. Castiel’s eyes found Pastor Jim’s eyes once more before responding softly.

“I don know if it true or no. They jus kept on yelling and was anger-y. They wann’ed me t’a speak for ‘em so I did. What they wann’ed said was real enouf to ‘em though.” Castiel sniffed at the end and Missouri brought an arm forward to wipe his face with a clean damp cloth. Jim took a breath to speak again and received a warning glare from Missouri which spoke volumes: _ The child is tired, keep it short _.

Pastor Jim decided to chance the nun’s patience and asked, “But Castiel, you are certain that they were angry at the Judge, not someone else?”

Castiel didn’t hesitate when he responded with a matter of fact, “Yes. They all watched him, followed him aroun the room, pointed at'im like this.” The tiny boy lifted one hand from his hair and pointed at Jim with a tiny shaking finger.

A scared sounding Rufus interjected “And did they all leave with him?”

Castiel sat quiet for a moment, pondering how to answer the man’s question. He swept his eyes over the small room they were in. The many angry souls were not in this space but they were close by. Castiel wanted to give a good answer, the right answer, but he was confused and scared he'd say the wrong thing.

The kindly ghost lady spoke up once more, “Castiel, that’s your name right? I heard Bishop Murphy say it. My name is Mary. Could you please tell them this.” 

Pastor Jim watched in fascination as the pale child allowed his gaze to dance about the room and once more settle on the space behind Jim’s right shoulder. Tilting his small head, the child seemed to be listening once more. Finally, the boy spoke, “Them anger ghosts can’t leave t’follow the juj. They’re stuck here where’s their bodies are at. They can’t stay though. They’re all real angery and that makes ‘em danger-house.”

“Looks like you’ve got yourself a haunted cathedral Bishop.” Rufus tried for a chuckle to lighten the mood but it came out far shakier than he’d intended.

Shifting to look at Missouri, the Bishop thought out loud, “How do you cleanse a house of God and help hundreds of lost souls find peace?”

Missouri was saved from having to admit she hadn’t the faintest idea when the boy with strange blue eyes answered for her, “Salt and fire.”

“Salt and fire?” Jim asked Castiel, the child’s ice blue eyes still fixed on the space to his right.

Castiel rubbed his forehead and dropped eye contact. He mumbled out “It's like Michael said for Anna and Gabe." He gestured weakly to the space beside the bishop, "She sayed you got to put salt on the body and burn it t’ash. Leave nothing to fix the spirit ‘ere.”

“She?” The Bishop burned to know who it was that haunted the air behind him. Before he could ask further Sister Missouri stood and gathered the child in her arms and rubbed his back soothingly. 

“I’d say that we’ve had enough questions for tonight. Let’s get a few bites of supper in you and then off to bed.” 

Jim watched Missouri exit the room with a droopy eyed Castiel and felt the presence from behind his right shoulder leave with them. He resisted the urge to rub his shoulder, only now noticing how chilled that skin was beneath his priestly robes. 

Rufus stood, breaking Jim from his thoughts. “I’ll be off now Bishop. I’m a man of old beliefs and none too fond of the supernatural. I plan on drinking my way back home and forgetting I ever found that Novak boy.”

Jim stayed seated as the other man left, rubbing warmth back into his shoulder. He would never admit it but a part of him wished he could do the same. Burning the bodies would solve his lack of grave sites problem, however cremation wasn’t exactly church practice. Perhaps a letter to the Vatican was in order.

And then there was the child. A boy who could see and speak with ghosts. When had life become so complicated?

*****

~Roughly Eleven Years Later~

(Castiel is 15 Years Old)

Castiel had explored every inch of the great cathedral. It had taken him years to do so but he had some help from Notre Dame’s other inhabitants, both living and ethereal. There was Sister Missouri who saw to the majority of his needs and to his schooling. She never directly addressed his ability to speak with the dead, however Castiel believed she knew his secret based on a vague memory of his first night in the cathedral. Then there was Bishop Murphy, a kind and positive figure in Castiel’s life, yet far too busy to truly help raise the boy.

When Castiel was nearing nine years old Sister Missouri had introduced him to Sister Megan, a young woman with dark brown hair and a smug pull to her lips. She was supposedly a nun sent to help an aging Sister Missouri with tasks around the cathedral, however Sister Meg didn’t act very virtuously. Once Castiel had found her drunk on sanctified wine and blaspheming with passion. Since then, Castiel had resolved to avoid Sister Meg at all costs.

Avoidance within Notre Dame proved a relatively easy task. Much of Castiel’s time was spent in the high bell tower. It was in there that Castiel could be himself, away from the chores and lessons Sister Missouri assigned, the arrogant sinful activities of Sister Meg, or the curious prying stares of patrons coming to the cathedral for enlightenment. 

There were three other reasons that Castiel preferred the bell tower. Their names were Balthazar, Samandriel, and Mary. All three were spirits but they were also the closest Castiel had to a family. Smart mouthed Balthazar was the oldest, a roman centurion who had died in a skirmish on the land Notre Dame was built upon. Samandriel had been only seventeen, at Notre Dame as an acolyte studying to take the cloth when the plague had hit, killing the teenager only two years before Castiel’s arrival. And then there was Mary, whose remains were buried in Notre Dame’s crypts. She had been a young mother living in Paris with her family. To think she had survived being pregnant during the plague’s spread only to perish in a house fire a little over a year and a half before Castiel’s arrival. Sometimes Castiel would catch her gazing out of Notre Dame’s bell tower into the square below where she hoped for a glimpse of her sons. To Castiel, these three were all the family he needed. Samandriel was like a brother, Balthazar an uncle, and Mary, well Castiel like to think of Mary like a mother. 

*****

The bell tower was freezing but Castiel didn’t mind too much. Cold was numbing. 

“Castiel!” An impatient voice called from the stairwell, “Come on Castiel, the doctor’s left now and Sister Missouri wants to see you.” Sister Megan came into view of Castiel’s little alcove, her breath coming a bit short after having ascended so many stairs. “Fuck it’s cold up here! You’d better be alive Clarence!”

“My name’s not ‘Clarence’ and you should not swear. We live in a church.”

“Damn it Clarence, do you really think I give a flying fuck about swearing, naw, you should fucking know by now I don’t give two shits from the bishop's holy arse about language. If God didn’t want us to say something then he wouldn’t of let us come up with the words in the first place. Now let’s get your bony ass to Sister Missouri before she-”

“You’re a terrible nun”, Castiel spoke, cutting Sister Meg off. Before she could answer, Castiel was headed for the stairs. 

Sister Missouri’s chambers were dim and musty. Castiel missed the bright and airy space these chambers had been in seasons past. But the nun no longer had the energy to leave her bed, much less tend to the state of her humble room. 

Castiel made his way over to Missouri’s bedside and took a seat in a chair beside the dozing elder. Missouri stirred and looked blearily at Castiel before smiling and reaching out weakly to take his hand.

“Child, your hands are like ice! What did I tell you about the dangers of the cold? Go stoke my fire will you, just thinking about you in that belltower puts a chill to my bones.”

Castiel did as he was asked under the Sister’s assessing gaze. She spoke when he returned to her side, “You’ve been avoiding me boy.” It wasn’t a question. 

They both knew she was right. After a beat, Missouri continued, “Is that your way of coping? Hmm Castiel? Act like I never existed? Does that make it hurt less when I’m gone?”

The teen shifted in his seat. He was certain that Sister Missouri knew about his abilities, even if they’d never spoken about it after the night he’d arrived at Notre Dame. Just above a whisper, Castiel attempted to explain, “It’ll all be back to normal soon, I won’t ignore you. I just don’t like to see the dying bit. The others though, I feel for them. They’re gonna lose you.”

A sadness flooded into Missouri’s eyes, “What makes you think you won’t be losing me?”

Confused, Castiel looked Sister Missouri in the eye and said even more softly, “You know why.” 

“Hun, I’ve lived my life. I’ve done my best to do the Lord’s work. I’m old now and worn too. When it comes my time, I’m going with the Angels. Sweet Castiel, I’m gonna move on.”

For a moment it felt to Castiel as if all the air was stolen from the room. Sister Missouri might be demanding but she always had time for him. Missouri was one of the few _ living _ humans he could talk to, who knew him. She could meet his eyes without shivering and letting her gaze slip to the side. It seemed as if all Castiel could do was lose those he loved.

“But,” He managed to choke out before dry swallowing and trying again, “But you can’t leave! You’re a part of this place, just like me!”

With a gentle hand and warm smile, Missouri quickly calmed Castiel, “The dead may be bound to one place or another, but God grants the living freedom to move as they please. Neither of us is bound to this cathedral Castiel, we live here but are not a part of the stones or foundation.”

Castiel felt tears well up and he turned to stare at the floor rather than let Missouri see his sadness.

Missouri ached to pull the teen close as she had when he was very small and new to Notre Dame. As a nun she had no children of her own body, but as far as she was concerned, Castiel was the closest she’d ever come to having a son. Age however had stolen her strength and all she could manage was to trace small comforting circles on the back of Castiel’s cold hand with her thumb. 

“Castiel, I have a question to ask you. Look at me boy.” Castiel raised his head up; her dark brown eyes met his unsettling blue ones. “I know it’s a strange question, but tell me, who do you consider to be your mother?”

Without hesitation, Castiel replied, “Mary”. Missouri knew Castiel wasn’t referring to the virgin Mother, but rather the phantom in the bell tower. The question had been asked from a sinful vain corner of her heart, and while it stung to not have her own name spoken, Missouri understood. All the same, she was relieved Castiel would not be alone once she passed. The wisen old nun knew, however, that spirits could be dangerous. 

Turning toward her would be son, Missouri held his hand tightly, “Castiel, promise me you’ll take care of Mary and the other spirits. Remember, spirits that stay too long are vulnerable to evil forces which twist them and inspire violence. Protect the spirits of Notre Dame and help them pass on if you are able.”

Castiel nodded and Missouri smiled before drifting off to sleep one last time. 

*****

Meg found Castiel outside Missouri’s door. The doctor had just left with Bishop Murphy. Sister Missouri was in God’s hands now. Meg let out a weighty sigh. She’d promised Missouri to look after the squirt and not even Meg in all her sinful ways was willing to break a promise made to a dying nun. 

She pulled a seemingly catatonic Castiel up and lead the gangly teen to the chapel. Meg pulled a bottle of wine from the tabernacle and turned to Castiel. 

“Well Clarence, you look like you could really use a drink.”

To her surprise, Castiel answered, “You’re not supposed to drink that. It’s sacramental.”

“Hey, Jesus’ first miracle was turning water into wine, I’d say the Good Shepherd would approve.” Meg shrugged before taking a hearty swig from the bottle.

Despite himself, Castiel huffed out a laugh, “You seriously have to be the absolute worst nun of all time, why do you even bother?”

“Clarence, I am not nearly drunk enough to have this conversation with you,” She took another deep drink from the bottle, “But, seeing as you asked, I’ll tell ya the short and simple of it. I didn’t want to sell my body so I turned to the church who pimped me out to God. I was faced with selling my body or my soul, you can see which one I picked.”

While Sister Megan was sinking deeper into her bottle, Castiel quietly let himself out of the chapel. He hoped that Sister Megan was a rarity, that most nuns were not bitter and angry as she was. All the same, Castiel was beginning to realize that for the nun, the cathedral was as much her home as it was her prison.

Castiel shook himself as he passed silently down flagstone corridors, refusing to allow his mind to consider too deeply the parallels between himself and Sister Megan. The cathedral was his _ home _, where his found-family of ghosts cared for him enough to stay while the living insisted on abandoning him for the Kingdom of Heaven. Besides, Notre Dame was all he'd ever known, where was home if not these stone walls and vaulting Gothic arches?

Castiel was about to seek cold solace in his bell tower alcove when he heard a commotion from the cathedral’s main hall. It had taken the Judge nearly ten years to return, but now that Missouri was no longer around to protect Castiel, Zachariah had plans for the gifted boy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Feedback is immensely appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for physical and mental abuse of a vulnerable adult, isolation, torture (of a ghost, but still - no gore), and self-esteem issues.  
If I left something out, please feel free to let me know. Stay safe friends!

~ Roughly Seven (More) Years Later ~

(Castiel is 22 Years Old)

“Left! Right! Left! Lunge! Yes! That a’boy!” Balthazar called out, waving his translucent rapier in the air while Castiel panted from exertion. 

"The stakes aren't anywhere near even, Balthazar." Castiel jabbed his broomstick through the ghost's immaterial form. "If I didn’t enjoy the exercise, this would be the definition of an 'effort in futility'." 

“Enough of your excuses squire!” The long dead knight bated, drawing a flicker of a smile to Castiel’s lips before the young man took up a fighting stance once more.

After a few more sets, Castiel took a breather and spotted Mary gazing out of the bell tower into the square below.

“Castiel come look,” she beckoned him over. 

Obediently, he set down the broom and walked to stand beside her. She pointed down into the busy masses of Parisians milling about.

“There, do you see him? That’s my Sammy, you know, my youngest. He was only a baby when I passed but look at him now! The youngest captain of the guard Paris has ever seen! He’ll be twenty-one in November.” Pride shone in Mary’s eyes.

Castiel nodded with false enthusiasm. He loved Mary and wasn’t about to ruin the moment for her. Yet, as Castiel watch the warmth in her eyes turned elsewhere, he couldn’t help the pang in his chest. That maternal pride would never be directed towards him. Being an orphan and ward of the state, cursed with unholy purpose and mandated to stay on hallowed ground provided Castiel with little opportunity to be high achieving. 

Silently, in a quiet dark place he kept deep within himself, Castiel decided - not for the first time - that he didn’t care very much for Samuel Winchester. 

From the corner of his eye Castiel spotted strange movement interrupting the chaotic yet seemingly choreographed flow of the crowd. Judge Zachariah’s carriage was causing the people to part as they avoided being crushed beneath hooves and polished black wheels.

Castiel sprang into action, tidying the bell tower and making the space suitable for his Master.

“The tower is clean m’boy!” Balthazar bellowed from where he sharpened his spectral sword in the corner.

“Master says cleanliness is next to godliness.” Castiel murmured, eyes searching for any thread out of place in the nearly barren bell tower. Firelight glinted off the silver flatware Castiel laid out on the table, highlighting a frantic glean in his eyes.

“You've set the table just fine,” Samandriel reached out one transparent hand to still Castiel’s shaking fingers as they straightened the burnished silverware in imperceptible amounts. 

“I mustn’t displease Master.”

“Castiel,” Mary's clear voice pierced through the drumming of his heartbeat filling the young man's ears, “Breathe. You are good, you’ve done nothing to displease the judge.” 

Castiel couldn't help but notice the concern in Mary’s gaze, gone was the glow of pride from moments before - not that it had been meant for him anyway - only ever that pinch of worry between her brows.

Taking a short shaky breath, Castiel went over the judge's rules in his mind, ensuring he hadn't accidentally broken any.

_ Stay in the tower. Ring the bells on time. Speak only when spoken to. Eat only what is given to you. And for the love of all Blessed France, tell no one of your devil powers! _

Balthazar’s scornful drawl broke Castiel’s focus, “I don't know why you bother with that angry repressed tangled hair on a swine cock anyway! What’s he ever done for you eh’lad?” 

“My Master is kind.” Castiel refused to look at Balthazar, a contemptuous snort was enough for the ancient ghost to make his feelings known. “He brings me food every other day. He teaches me about the world.”

“He forbade you to leave the bloody bell tower!”

“He risks his life to come see me, Bathazar, I know you don’t understand, but please, I- what I am, my curse, it makes me a danger to everyone I meet. My Master is the only living person with the courage and selflessness to visit me. He comes to see me despite how dangerous I am. He- because of him I have a purpose now.”

“To ring the bells? Boy, I’ve been on this land for nearly a thousand years! I’ve saw this bell tower built and I can tell you there’s no reason for all your suffering - that man’s a villain if I’ve ever seen one!”

“That’s enough Bal.” Mary’s voice was soft but firm.

Balthazar grunted under the weight of Mary and Samandriel’s glares. Castiel was simply glad when the ancient ghost didn't press him further. No matter how many times the young man tried to explain, the elder ghost never tried to understand why Castiel needed his Master.

His situation wasn't ideal, Castiel knew it wasn’t, but Master had saved Castiel at a great expense to himself and all the souls of Paris. 

Finishing his preparations in the cold silence that lingered, Castiel whispered, “The living always leave me Balthazar. I mustn't displease Master.” 

_ Or he’ll leave me too _ went unsaid.

Castiel knelt beside his Master’s chair and bowed his head just as Zachariah entered the top of the bell tower. Without acknowledging Castiel, his Master took a seat at the table’s only chair and laid out his lunch slowly. 

Castiel could feel his stomach cramping when the scent of day-old bread wafted towards him. He made sure however to stay still. His Master would let him have some if he was good. Silence was considered good. 

After lighting a candle in the center of the table, the Judge at last turned to Castiel, “Hold out your hand.” 

Castiel fought back a shudder. Six years ago he’d told his Master all about his ability. He’d had to, he couldn’t keep any secrets from his Master. He had been a fool when he tried to deny his Master in those first few years after Sister Missouri’s death. And after Sister Meg disappeared… Now that his Master was aware of Castiel’s unique affliction, Judge Zachariah was helping him use the curse for good.

Castiel flinched when a piece of cool round metal dropped into his hand. Zachariah spoke as Castiel turned the broken pocket watch over his hands.

“It’s just the one this week. Foolish rebels, with your curse my poor afflicted Castiel, not even death is a sure way to keep a secret these days.”

Castiel focused on the timepiece, calling to the spirit of the person it had until recently belonged to. When a ghostly man appeared in the bell tower Castiel gave a nod to inform his Master.

“Well done Pet,” his Master carded through Castiel’s hair once absently. Castiel leaned slightly into the warm touch, all thoughts of hunger and cold and fear fleeing for a moment. Zachariah untangled his fingers far too soon and moved to stand. He began pacing the stone floor, fingers linked behind his back.

“I know you worked for the Hunter King. Tell me, where is the Court of Miracles?”

Castiel kept his eyes focused on the spectral man, praying for this one to speak, for this one to tell the Master what it was he wanted to know. 

But, like all the Huntsmen before him, this Hunter held the Judge with a stony glare and locked lips. 

The Judge, having no way of knowing where the ghost was, turned and repeated his question angrily at Castiel. “Bastard! Tell me where is the Court of Miracles?!”

The ghost remained silent, his expression revealed nothing.

Frustration mounting, Judge Zachariah cuffed Castiel hard on the back of his head followed by a loud slap across his cheeks. Castiel’s lip split and blood trailed down his chin, but he did not move his gaze from the dead huntsman. 

Again, the Judge asked, “Where. Is. The Court. Of. Miracles?”.

Again the ghost was without a response but Castiel could see the sorrow in the stranger’s eyes as the man stared down at the thin waif.

Castiel bit back the urge to yell at the huntsman himself, to spit at the phantom, to curse him and all the Hunters. The Judge had made many things clear in the past few years. It was Hunters that killed his family. It was their fault the Judge _ had _to beat him. Castiel didn’t need the dead man’s pity, he needed answers!

His Master, having lost patience with this particular apparition, pulled out a small canister of salt and snatched the watch from where it was clutched in Castiel’s hand. Once treated with salt, the pocket watch was lowered closer and closer into the flame of the candle. Castiel watched as the ghost-man fidgeted and grimaced in pain. 

“Your final chance. Tell me!”

The ghost shot a panicked look from the watch to Castiel before tilting his head back, wailing in agony.

When the man's anguish, the flames consuming yet another soul, became too much to watch, Castiel slowly tried to turn his eyes to the cold stones beneath him. Strong warm hands gripped Castiel’s chin and forced his eyes back up, the dead man's pain impossible to miss as his soul burned and burned and burned.

“You'll watch Pet,” Master's voice was soft and sure but so so cold, Castiel fought the urge to pull back out of his Master's tight grip. “You must watch.”

Master couldn’t see the souls as they burn but at times like this, Castiel wondered if the ways the tortured souls screamed and writhed was reflected in Castiel’s own eyes. Although Castiel wanted nothing more than to tear his gaze away from dead before their souls disappeared in a burst of scorching heat, these were the only times his Master would smile. He smiled a real living smile at Castiel.

So Castiel would watch as the salt and fire ate away at the huntsman’s soul, just as his Master asked him to. 

_ Is this what hell will look like when I get there._

The thought tumbled in Castiel’s mind as the bright afterimage of the man’s soul began to fade from Castiel’s vision.

Master wiped a single tear from Castiel’s cheek almost tenderly before leaving down down the flagstone steps, only a semi-stale chunk of bread left behind to show he had been there at all. 

Castiel stayed on his knees and long while after his Master's last steps echoed into oblivion. He knelt and he prayed.

Master had taught Castiel all about hell. 

Cursed people, monsters like Castiel go to hell. Not even in his prayers could Castiel admit the true reason he hated to watch souls burn, how he hated to be reminded that he would one day burn as all monsters must. 

*****

“I can’t do it!” Castiel tried for a third time to convince the three spirits in front of him.

“Castiel, the festival happens just once a year,” Samandriel reminded.

“And there will be displays of strength, ladies to dance with, and a bounty of liquors to sample,” Balthazar added.

“My Master forbade me to leave the tower. My place is here... with the bells… and- The festival is a ‘cesspool of immorality’, why would I want to go anyway?” Castiel crossed his arms tightly, hugging himself.

Mary could see the way Castiel’s eyes tracked the movement of tiny bodies preparing the square with colorful banners and stage platforms far below the belltower window. His posture remained ridgid as he leaned ever closer to the open window as a band of minstrels began playing a warm up jig. 

Stepping forward she reasoned, “Zachariah will be too busy judging the competitions to realize you’ve left the tower. And it is _ his _ opinion that the festival is immoral, many prefer to see the event as good honest fun. You have a right to your own opinion Dear.”

Castiel bit his lip and continued to watch the square before Notre Dame. The merchant booths, the mirthful crowd, the music and festivities were all so enticing yet Castiel knew better.

“My Master has been clear: If I leave hallowed ground then the evil within me will take over and bring destruction upon innocents.” Castiel held up a hand to stay the ghosts’ arguments as they all opened their mouths at once, “I don’t care if you believe him or not, if there’s even the slightest chance he’s correct, that I could hurt that many people… I- I refuse to be the cause of anyone’s suffering.”

“Anyone but yourself, you mean.” Balthazar cut in sharply. The ancient ghost lost all fire however when he saw the hurt burn in Castiel’s eyes.

Mary laid a gentle hand on Balthazar’s shoulder, “Castiel has decided to stay put and watch the festival from afar for another year. The choice is his to make.” 

She paused, a slight smirk stretching across her pale lips, “However, hallowed ground does not mean ‘only the bell tower’. With all of Paris at the festival, it should be safe to roam the cathedral, perhaps visit some of your favorite childhood haunts?”

Castiel nodded in consideration. 

“My Master’s rule is to never leave the bell tower.”

“But,” Sammandriel cut in, “the judge said that rule was there to protect innocents visiting the cathedral and if there are no innocents in the cathedral…” 

“I suppose if everyone is at the festival…” Castiel clasped his shaking hands together, “It has been a long time since… maybe I can see if I can help down below, visit Sister Missouri’s grave in the crypts - I’ll just take a peak around, won’t be gone more than half an hour.” 

Samandriel cheered and Balthazar clapped a cold hand on his shoulder while Mary brought a blanket out from Castiel’s alcove to lay across his shoulders.

“Of course dear, have fun.” Castiel felt radiant under Mary’s smile.

The soft worn leather of Castiel’s shoes made no sound as he descended into the main sanctuary of Notre Dame. Castiel had no great love for the large and grand area of worship. While impressive, the space was often packed with nosy parishioners and pilgrims all too interested in catching a glimpse of the pale young bell ringer. 

Over the years Castiel had caught wind of the stories Parisians told about him. Some thought him to be deformed, clamoring about the bell tower with a hunched back and disfigured face. Others would insist Castiel was a half-wit too dull to participate in society. A third common tale, one which caused Castiel’s stomach to twist sickly, was that he was the bastard son of the Bishop hidden shamefully away. 

For all the ridiculous and defaming rumours, Castiel was thankful that the masses had no inkling of his true unholy nature, a mercy the young man attributed fully to the goodwill of his Master. In many ways, Castiel reflected as he approached the ground level of the cathedral, he was grateful his Master forbade him to leave the bell tower. He had not been subjected to the prying eyes of Parisians for many years now.

The sanctuary was quiet despite the dull roar of merrymakers coming from the square outside. A handful of candles burned low from yesterday’s service and lines of smoke swirled about the pillars and vaulted ceiling of the cathedral. Keeping close to the wall, Castiel silently made his way towards the altar where the colored light of the rose window played across the marble flooring. It had been so long since Castiel last bathed himself in light and color which others took for granted. 

He’d nearly reached the transept when hushed voices spoke ahead of him. Castiel threw his body against the wall so that he was positioned in a shadowy alcove. 

_ If the judge finds out I selfishly left the bell tower! _ Castiel clamped down on that thought before he could begin to tremble and pressed his eyes shut. If he crept back now, no one would see him, no harm would be done.

“...the Huntsmen will-” 

Castiel’s eyes shot open. 

These men were talking about the group his Master was seeking. 

_ If I bring Master helpful information… perhaps he will forget to punish me! _

Steadying himself, Castiel crept ever closer to the source of the voices.

From what he could make out, there were two of them, men from the sound of their voices, familiar with one another. 

“I don’t want to talk about the life. What have you been up to? Please leave out anything illegal.”

A beautiful laugh rang out softly, “Yeah yeah, wouldn’t want to implicate you or anything nerd boy. Life’s been good - I’m working at Ellen’s now. Stop by sometime, I’d like to see you more than once a year.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“Whatever, you’re welcome to come have a drink like any other Parisian. That’s all I’m saying. Don’t worry, I won’t invite you on a hunt and it’s not like-”

“HEY! What do you think you’re doing?!”

In his effort to inch closer, Castiel’s shadow had entered one man’s line of sight. Both men were standing and headed to where Castiel was pressed to the brick and mortar of the cathedral wall. 

Heart racing, thoughts racing, Castiel willed his legs to run. 

Before he’d turned and made it two steps however, Castiel felt the brick wall pressed into his back again, this time not on his own accord. The larger man had one arm pressed firmly across Castiel’s chest, pinning him in place.

“Who are you? Why are you here?” Castiel hazarded a look at the man’s face and was shocked to see the soft brown locks of Sammy Winchester, Mary’s son, Captain of the Guards, his captor. 

As captain of the guards, Captain Winchester reported directly to his Master. Castiel dropped his gaze to the ground and felt his body begin to shake harder. If not for the pressure on his chest supporting him up against the wall, Castiel would have crumpled. 

“Sammy, let him down, you’re terrifying the poor guy.” This was the voice of the second man, softer and deeper than Captain Winchesters. 

“He saw us, we can’t just let him go.” Castiel felt the Captain’s hot words brush past his ear and he shook harder. 

“And what exactly did he see? Two men praying in church, no harm there.” The arm was pulled from Castiel’s person suddenly and in his terror, Castiel did not move to soften his fall as the ground rose to meet him. 

“Shit! You okay man?” Castiel made out in the dim lighting the boots of the second man approaching him. Strong yet gentle hands took hold of Castiel’s shoulders and propped him up against the cold wall. Castiel willed the cold and numb to enter his body, to cool his fear and turn his scared shakes into warranted shivering. 

One of the hands left Castiel’s shoulder and the inner cold worsened at the loss of contact.

“Hey, can you look at me man?” His voice was soft. After a moment of unresponsive silence, the man placed a warm calloused hand on back on Castiel’s shoulder and began to turn the bell ringer’s body toward his own. Castiel trained his eyes on the marble floor but it took an enormous effort not to lean heavily into the stranger’s warm palm. Such a gentle touch was different from his Master’s grasp and foreign after seven years of near isolation. Mary would sometimes hold his face or his hands but she was always insubstantial, never warm against his cold skin. The man’s hands were strength and heat and alive and _ safe _.

Castiel sprung up at that thought. He was putting this stranger and the Captain of the Guards at risk. Castiel was dangerous, cursed! Had his Master taught him nothing?! 

Nearly knocking the kind man over in his haste to create distance between them, Castiel turned to run for the bell tower staircase. 

*****

Sam was about to give chase after the waif who had spied on them when Dean reached out and stopped him. 

“He saw us Dean!”

“Yeah and, did you catch a look at him Sammy? That guy’s stick thin, cold as an iceberg, and terrified out of his mind. Not exactly out for world domination your Captainliness. Let him go.”

“If he tells anyone, if anyone links us”

“Sam, we grew up together, we have the same last name for Christ's sake! If anyone was going to link us, they’d have done it by now, skinny bell ringer or not.”

“Bell ringer?! Him?”

Dean gazed toward the staircase where the smaller man had fled, a crumpled thread-bare blanket on the floor where the smaller man had been moments before. Bending, Dean took the thin fabric in hand.

“Makes sense don’t it? Damn! I own Caleb a chicken dinner! I was betting hunchback all the way! ”

“You’re an idiot!”

“Yeah well you’re a Bitch”

“Jerk”

“Catch you later Sammy”

“It’s Sam. And yeah… see you around Dean.”

*****

Castiel clutched a hand to where his heart still felt like it was trying to escape his chest. Desperately, he gazed down at the square situated beneath the great stone facade of Notre Dame. Captain Winchester had left hours ago, the second man waited half an hour more before he too left out a side door into the fray of the festival. 

Castiel had stood in the cold open window of the bell tower for the rest of the day. He did not feel the chilling wind or snowflakes which began to settle on his eyelashes nor did he notice when the sun began to set. Castiel was awash in thoughts. 

_ Will the Captain report me to my Master? _

_ Will the Huntsmen come for me? _

_ Should I tell my Master about what I heard when he next visits? _

_ What did I really hear? _

Aside from the Captain, Castiel had no idea who the other man was or even what he looked like, having fled before he could see the kind man’s face. Perhaps the Captain was only doing his job, maybe the other man, the kind one, was a spy. Surely a man so kind could not be a hunter!

The underground gang was responsible for an uncountable number of murders, including his own family - his Master had told him these truths many times over the years and enforced the lessons with the cane and rod and his hands across Castiel’s hands and feet and back.

_ Captain Winchester is Mary’s son. _ Castiel reminded himself. _ Turning him over would betray Mary. _

And then there was the kind man. Castiel could not bare the thought of watching his Master interrogate the kind man’s ghost. To think of those warm hands turned cold and immaterial. To think of his laughter turned to screams as he burned and burned and-

“Castiel,” a gentle voice broke the young man from his whirling thoughts. 

Castiel turned stiffly to see Mary, all soft concern and compassion. 

“It’s nearly time to ring the evening bells and you look to be frozen through. Come this way, I’ve started a fire.” She prompted

Castiel shivered violently, realizing how close he had come to missing the evening bells. 

No one noticed when the bells rang, not really. The bells were another layer of a Parisian symphony which played daily. But if he’d missed his cue, the absence of bells would throw off the whole orchestra. It would be the talk of the town, and his Master… Castiel shook once more, thanks to Mary he would not have to find out what his Master would do to him should the bells not ring on time. 

The bells played out right on schedule. Castiel fulfilled his role to the people of Paris as he had for years. Worn, cold, and working to ignore his gnawing hunger, Castiel turned in early to bed. Mary, Balthazar, and Samandriel followed him to his small alcove, worry etched on each of their faces. 

“I take it your adventures in the cathedral did not go as planned?” Balthazar questioned softly as Mary smoothed her palm across Castiel’s forehead.

Castiel wanted to apologize for worrying them, for being quiet and distant and numb but his words were stuck somewhere inside. Instead, Castiel pulled his threadbare blanket - the one he’d left down in the sanctuary and Samandriel had found for him hours later folded neatly on a step about halfway up to the belltower stairs - tightly around his shoulders, laid with his back towards his spectral family, and prayed for a better tomorrow which he did not truly believe he deserved. 

*****

Castiel recognized the kind man by his laugh four days later. 

The man’s bright laugh cut across the cathedral square right to the belltower window by which Castiel sat. 

Castiel was learning that the kind man with warm hands and weathered boots spent much of his time around the Cathedral. He would criss cross the square all day long. The man would help a lady with her shopping baskets at one end and pass a beggar an apple on the other end of the square. 

It was obvious what the man was doing. With each pass of the square he redistributed wealth in tiny increments, keeping none for himself. It became a new game for Castiel, to spot which wealthy Parisian would be the man’s next mark and to catch the moment when the sleight of hand took place. The man was an enigma, Castiel fancied him an angel or maybe a saint in the making. 

_ The Saint of Huntsmen.  _ Castiel had to keep reminding himself that the man was likely a murderer, like all the Hunters Castiel had been told about. Surely his Master knew best.

Despite better judgement, Castiel continued watching and if he imagined the Saint looking towards the bell tower from time to time, well Castiel decided that was alright too.

His Master visited regularly through the remaining winter months, bringing more items from dead hunters. One afternoon the Judge came with a tan colored coat, speckled with red. Castiel tried with all his might to summon the owner’s spirit, but there was no one attached - whoever he was, he had already moved on. 

Castiel regretted the head shake he had to deliver to his Master. The beating that followed was brutal. His Master was out of patience and the Hunter King remained elusive. Castiel could not provide for himself a reason why this was his fault, it simply was, and therefore he deserved his punishment.

Mary wept that night, as Castiel hobbled to his alcove nursing new wounds and aged ones. Balthazar and Samandriel worked hard to influence the material world and brought the forgotten beige coat around Castiel’s battered shoulders. That night Castiel prayed for many things: for the Hunters to be found by his Master, for a cold so strong Castiel could be numbed of all his hurts, and lastly, just before slipping into sleep, Castiel prayed that the Saint would return, if only for a little while. 

Castiel soon found that sometimes prayers are answered. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for late posting - I decided to rewrite entire sections instead of cursory editing as originally planned when I made my timeline (I'd like to think my writing ability has improved since I wrote this 5+ years ago.... posting the swill that was the original draft felt like a disservice to you lovely readers).  
Hopefully the many yo-yoing POV shifts have been fixed to streamline sections better. I am open to feedback however as I'm always looking to improve!
> 
> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Trigger warnings for mental abuse of a vulnerable adult, food insecurity and the psychological impacts of that, wrongful imprisonment, internalized homophobia, misuse of policing power, and loss of a parent.  
Please feel free to message me if I've forgotten any warnings. Stay safe friends!
> 
> * * *
> 
> A friend pointed out to me that I use some specific terms for locations within a church that many may be unfamiliar with. Here's a rundown of the locations mentioned and what they mean:  
Narthex \- essentially a vestibule at the front doors of the church (sometimes called a "Gathering Area" in local churches)  
Sacristy \- A place behind or beside the alter where not-yet-blessed communion and religious vestments are stored  
Sanctuary \- Where the church-goers (parishioners) sit during a mass/service (called the Nave in the picture)  
Transept (mentioned in the last chapter) - Cathedrals are built in the shape of a cross so the there are two transepts which are essentially the left and right arms of the cross that branch off from the main body of the cathedral.  
Rose window  (also mentioned last chapter) - gorgeous pieces of stained glass at the front of some churches. Notre Dame is famous for it's extremely ornate and beautiful rose window which thankfully survived the 2019 fire.
> 
> Here's a picture of a general Catholic cathedral layout (it's more simplified than Notre Dame but gets the gist across):
> 
>   

> 
> * * *
> 
>   


Commotion in the square woke Castiel from fitful sleep. From the bell tower’s windows all Castiel could make out were torches bobbing about moving swiftly towards the Cathedral. 

Horseshoes clattered against the cobblestone square and Castiel heard the great narthex doors scream on their hinges as they opened in the chilly winter air. His ghost family nowhere to be found, curiosity tugged Castiel from his bed and down the stone steps, mindful of his injuries, to search for an explanation. 

A man burst into the sanctuary and past the shadowy staircase wherein Castiel stood stock still. The man was breathing heavily when he spun to face the many uniformed guardsmen pouring in noisily through the narthex doors. Castiel struggled to make out in the dim lighting the faces of the guardsmen, however he could tell Captain Winchester apart from the rest based on his height alone. 

Perhaps it was simply the inconsistency of the candle light, but Castiel thought he saw flickers of fear in the Captain’s eyes. It was then that Castiel saw the man who first entered the sanctuary. 

The Saint. 

Castiel fought the urge to run towards the man he had spied from afar for some weeks. To seek out the warm hands of the Saint. To check the Saint’s pockets for a stolen apple which he had intended to give a starving soul. The rattling hilts of forty some swords against uniforms, a reminder of the rules should he be caught, kept Castiel firmly in the safety of the shadows. 

The Captain suddenly turned to his men and called out, “This man evokes the right of Sanctuary. We can not arrest him here.” 

Castiel cocked his head slightly, the Saint was still breathless and back peddling; he had not spoken a word! The Captain had lied!

Just then the sound of familiar boots on Notre Dame’s marble floor rang out through the Cathedral and sent a shiver up Castiel’s spine. 

“Take him anyway Captain!” His Master called out, “This man is affiliated with the Hunters! The people’s so called ‘Righteous Man’ is both a thief and a murderer! A cathedral is no suitable place for him!”

Castiel was rooted in place. Any longing he had had to dash out and see the Saint winked out like a candle in a hurricane. His Master was here. His Master would see him.

_ The room isn’t prepared! I’m not in the tower! I'm not in the TOWER! _

Cold sweat dripped down Castiel’s back as fine tremors shook his shoulders which pressed harder into the shadowy brickwork of the staircase.

A few of the guardsmen stepped forward to shackle the Saint who took a few more staggering steps backward. 

It was then that all present noticed a figure in white approach from the alter. 

Archbishop Murphy rested a hand on the Saint’s shoulder and stared down the guardsmen before addressing the Judge.

“Lord in the Palace of Justice, you ignore this man’s right to sanctuary? Are you so eager to sin in this place of worship?”

The Judge puffed out his chest as he challenged the Archbishop, “Archbishop, you know as a God-fearing man I do not lightly take this criminal who has appealed for the Church’s sanctuary into custody. However, you must know he is a great sinner, a murdering member of the fearsome Hunters who harass our great city. In taking him now I endeavor to make Paris safer for all of the Lord’s children.” 

The Judge spread his hands smoothly and smiled, teeth gleaming predatory in the candle light. 

The Archbishop strode forward, placed himself in front of the Saint. 

“The boy has asked for the protection of the Church, protection which is never denied those on church grounds.”

“Fine!” the Judge spat back after an indignant pause, “As long as he stays in Notre Dame, the law will not arrest him, however, should he leave your precious cathedral, rest assured for the safety of Paris, he will be apprehended.” 

The Judge turned and called out before exiting, “I’ve never known a hunter to do well cornered and caged. Be seeing you soon boy!”

The guardsmen filed out and Captain Winchester was the last to pass through the narthex doors, making quick eye contact with the Archbishop who nodded kindly toward the young captain.

Once the lawmen had all left, the Saint sank into a pew with a heaving sigh. The Archbishop knelt before the man and spoke in a hushed tone. 

Castiel made to climb back up to his alcove when the Archbishop called out, “Castiel, would you bring our guest some water?”

The Saint’s head snapped around, eyeing the dark staircase as Castiel froze in place, limbs tense and muscles aching. A deep breath and a heartbeat later, the bell ringer limped out from the shadows. The Saint smiled at him, so warmly and genuine that Castiel forgot momentarily the Bishop’s request. Remembering himself and sticking to the shadows, Castiel walked to the Sacristy with weighted steps to fetch water.

*****

“So you’re this _ Righteous man _ I keep hearing about? Sounds like you’re making quite a name for yourself, my son, but you need to be more careful.” 

Jim made to sit in the pew beside the younger man.

“What’s your boy’s story Pastor Jim?” Dean asked when he’d finally caught his breath. His face turned away at last from where the limping man (Caseel was it?) had disappeared into the body of the cathedral and looked the Archbishop in the eyes.

“He is the bell ringer” Jim said shortly, his eyes still transfixed where Castiel had faded from sight in the midnight darkness of the sanctuary.

“Pastor, that’s not what I asked.” Dean kept a level gaze on the man of the cloth.

As if from far away, the Archbishop questioned in a soft voice, “Dean, how long have we known one another?” 

“Twenty or so years, met right here in the cathedral, at uh… mom's funeral.”

The pastor nodded and swept a hand over his face slowly. “Dean I have a confession to make. I should be making it to Castiel himself however I am in this instance a coward. Castiel came here as a child. I believe he is of a similar age to you and Sam. Orphaned, he became a ward of the state and through circumstance fell into the care of the church. After the passing of Sister Missouri, do you remember her?” The pastor suddenly cut off.

Dean nodded and spoke with a dark chuckle, “She threatened me with a spoon a few times, I remember that. One heck of a woman she was.”

A fleeting smile tugged at Jim’s lips, “That she was. She handled most of Castiel’s rearing while I ran the church, but after her passing…” the Pastor stopped suddenly once more and turned away from Dean with shame weighing down his broad frame.

Dean turned in the pew to face the Archbishop, “You’re confessing here padre, you know you want to say it so let’s go, get it off your chest.”

“It is perhaps my greatest sin, Dean.” Jim spoke slowly and leveled his gaze to meet Dean’s. With a heavy sigh, he continued, “I pretended that this cathedral should be my highest priority. That serving God meant keeping this particular house in order. Instead of serving by tending the flock, I minded the fences. And the most fragile of lambs fell into the clutches of a monster.” Pastor Jim’s voice was cold and quiet by the end, bordering somewhere between anger and grief. 

After a pause, Jim continued. “Judge Zachariah. The wicked man was by law Castiel’s guardian from the beginning. Since Missouri’s passing, the Judge has in effect isolated the boy and I know not what he does or says but Castiel has retreated into himself over the years. He used to be so… different. Now he seems… hollow I suppose.”

Dean clenched his jaw. The Judge’s involvement was never a good thing. For years the Hunters had worked to fight the tyranny and corruption emanating from the so called Palace of Justice. Judge Zachariah was the seed at the poison apple’s core. Before Dean could respond to the Archbishop’s confession, the topic of their discussion could be seen hobbling back towards them in silence. 

Without making eye contact, Castiel offered up a ceramic mug of water to Dean.

“Thank you.” Dean spoke graciously as he accepted the water. Being a hunter made one exceptional at reading expressions so Dean caught in the low lighting the look of surprise which flashed across Castiel’s face. After learning just how far the man was under the Judge’s thumb, he had to wonder why Sammy wasn’t being investigated for conspiring with Dean. The bell ringer had seen them together weeks ago and would have had ample opportunity to rat them both out.

Flashing a smile at the silent waif, Dean addressed Castiel, “Sorry to wake you up at this time of night.” Dean noticed Castiel had started to shake lightly, the younger man’s face still turned toward the cathedral’s marble floor. 

Breaking through the silence before it could become awkward, the Archbishop cut in. 

“Yes, late it is. We can continue introductions tomorrow when we are all fresh. Dean, if you’ll come with me we will find you a place to bed down. Good night Castiel.” 

Jim stood and placed a gentle hand on Castiel’s shoulder before the slight man could turn towards the dark staircase. Dean watched as the gentlest of physical contact caused Castiel to stiffen, waiting for a blow that would never come. Not from the Archbishop at least.

Softly, Jim spoke to Castiel, “Son, if your tower is cold there are plenty of rooms down here in the warmer sections of this church. Your old room remains just as you left it. And you are always welcome to join us for meals as well, I want you to know that.”

There was no visible or audible response from the youth and Jim swallowed down a lump in his throat. He lifted his hand from the bony shoulder and watched Castiel stoically and stiffly climb to the bell tower.

*****

Temptation.

Life was full of wicked temptation. That was what his Master always said. 

His Master said many things; things Castiel made certain to memorize. Castiel had a darkness which surrounded him - was a part of him - and put all who interacted with him at great risk. 

That was why his Master could only come sparingly. Why Castiel must fast regularly, to keep the wickedness within weak along with his body. Why he must pay for the sins of others at his Master’s discretion. It was why he remained restricted to the bell tower and he could never under any circumstances leave the hallowed ground of the cathedral. Most importantly, that was why he never sought out the Archbishop or other holy men and women who lived in the cathedral - not after the evil within him had killed Sister Missouri and forced his Master to send Sister Megan away.

Castiel was tempted to take up Archbishop Murphy’s offer. His body hurt from the cold of winter in the high bell tower, from the bruises and cuts - reminders of his Master’s sacrifices. It was his heart, however, that hurt more. Castiel longed for physical contact, for conversation with the living, to be acknowledged and welcomed, thanked for his service as the Saint had done that very evening when he’d handed the man some water. 

But all the things Castiel wanted most would only put those around him in danger - a devil’s temptation. Castiel may be many things - _ cursed, wicked, damned _ \- but he strove to never be selfish. Thus, he abstained from what he desired most.

Sleep did not return to Castiel once he reached his alcove in the bell tower. The frigid February night made his bones ache and the loneliness Castiel felt was suffocating. He watched the bobbing of torches as guardsmen were stationed at each of the Cathedral exits, intent on apprehending the Saint should he attempt to leave. When the events outside his window could not hold his attention any longer, Mary and the other bell tower ghosts did their best to help Castiel pass the time until the morning bells needed to be rung. 

*****

_ Pom Pom Pom... _

The rhythmic pounding of footsteps snapped Castiel from his unfocused staring some hours after sunrise. Racing on bruised and bloodless legs to make the bell tower fit for his Master, Castiel’s heart pounded in his chest. Had his Master seen him lurking from the staircase last night? Would he be punished for spying from the shadows? 

Before the anxiety of waiting could truly build, a voice called up from the stairwell.

“Hi, I’m Dean, I uh came in late last night. Is it uuuum alright if I come up er… in? I brought lunch… Hello?” 

The Saint, Dean, appeared at the top of the staircase holding level a cloth covered tray. 

Castiel froze in place, eyes wide. No one but his Master ever ventured up the hundreds of stairs to visit him. And what of the dangers his presence posed! There was no way Castiel could just kick the man out. After all, the tower did not belong to him, they were both guests in God’s house. Not to mention, with his Master’s rules running through his mind, he couldn’t even find his voice for a simple greeting. 

Castiel could see Dean was prepared to leave if he was deemed unwelcome. The longing which prevented sleep the previous night made itself known with such force Castiel could no longer bear to live in a world of bitter cold, pain, ghosts, and bells. 

Were Dean to leave, the loneliness might just consume the younger man entirely. Taking a breath, Castiel spoke in a voice louder than a whisper for the first time in months. 

“You are welcome to enter.” the scratchy underused voice made Castiel wince a bit. Clearing his throat he tried a second time, recalling the manners Sister Missouri had taught him a lifetime ago. “Thank you for bringing a meal. The table is this way.”

*****

Castiel watched with hooded eyes as Dean surveyed the sparse furnishings in the freezing bell tower. The other man shivered violently and Castiel felt all at once ashamed for having let the fire go out some days ago. The temperature alone was downright painful and the impersonal decor seemed to make the place colder still. 

Castiel felt how Dean’s eyes followed his movements as he led them to his Master’s small table with a single three-legged stool tucked neatly beneath it. 

Castiel gestured for Dean to sit, “I hope this set up meets your needs.”

Dean glanced around, shifting the basket in his arms, “Uh thanks Cas but um, where are you sitting?”

Castiel cocked his head slightly to one side. _ What is a ‘cass’? _

After a moment, Castiel realized he’d been asked a question and dropped his gaze to his feet, oddly ashamed of his home’s sparsity.

“There is only my Master’s stool. I kneel. It is a part of my penance.”

“Penance?!” Dean repeated lowly, dangerously. 

Castiel went rigid and fought the urge to take a step back. His Master never liked it when Castiel stepped away.

Dean rolled his shoulders and sighed.

“Sorry Cas, it’s just, it’s a stool. Everyone is fit for sitting on one. It’s a thing people do I guess. How about… we’ll both sit on the floor for lunch. Like some rich guys on a picnic by the Seine. I’ll bring up a second stool next time so we can both sit at the table. Sound like a plan?”

Castiel did not know how to respond to the man’s questions. He wanted to sit on the cold stones with someone cursed and wait-

_ Did he say he was coming back?! _

Castiel did not even dare hope; perhaps he was dreaming even now. 

Unable to find the words for a response, Castiel nodded his consent sharply and knelt on the cold stone floor. To his credit, Dean did not grimace or complain about the conditions when he too knelt and placed the tray down in the space between them. 

A meal.

Castiel had not had a true meal for longer than he could remember. His gracious Master fed Castiel the castoffs from his own meals if Castiel proved worthy. Instead of leftovers and scraps, Dean uncovered his tray to reveal the most amazing fresh biscuits, two steaming bowls of soup, and two mugs of warm cider. Castiel waited for the Saint to make the first move, unsure himself how to begin and unwilling to anger the hand which fed him.

“The soup is Sister Donna’s recipe. Apparently it warms the soul and body or something like that.” Dean babbled idly but Castiel could feel how Dean’s eyes watched him closely. 

The bowl almost hurt to hold but Castiel cherished the sensation of warmth.

Castiel was practically drooling and Dean let out a soft chuckle, handing Castiel a spoon. 

“Go ahead Cas, dig in while it’s warm.” Dean smile broadly at Cas. “Hope you like it.” Dean said with a grin before shoveling a spoonful into his mouth.

Castiel almost spilled his soup when he saw Dean’s easy smile.

_ When was the last time there was a living smile like that in this bell tower? _ he wondered. 

Samandriel often had a soft sad smile and Balthazar smirked, his Master’s smile was living but sharp and cruel. Perhaps this was just one more miracle the Saint was bringing into the world. 

The Saint slurped his soup noisily, but Castiel ate far slower. He had not eaten for the past two days and with the Judge being as angry as he had been the night before, it was doubtful that he would have another meal soon. 

And this food was warm. In a world where warmth was a scarce resource, Castiel intended to cherish it as long as he could. 

Castiel all but licked his bowl clean. He swiftly pocketed the bread roll sitting on the tray for him. The bread had a thick crust and would last a while in the cold dry bell tower. Allowing himself a brief moment, Castiel looked look forward to a time in the coming days when he could fend off hunger pangs on his own volition.

“You don’t have to do that, ya know.” 

Castiel froze, his hand still gripping the warm roll in the pocket of his tan coat. 

_ Will he punish me for taking the bread? _

Castiel felt his heartbeat began to pick up speed as a new thought broke through: _ Did accepting food from the Saint break Master’s rules? _

The bread crust cracked as Castiel clenched the hidden roll, jagged edges dug into his palm.

“Hey, no need to panic.” There was something in the Saint’s voice, it reminded Castiel of the repentant tones he overheard near confessionals. 

_ Why would he seek forgiveness from me? _

Only God could forgive. That was what his Master had taught him with fists and hard truths. A dull pounding was building at the back of Castiel’s skull - these questions made his head hurt. 

The Saint was still speaking, “I just mean you don’t need to save the food Cas. We’ll have dinner in a few hours. I’m bringing a stool, remember?”

Castiel forced his hand to relax and pulled it slowly from his pocket, keeping the roll safely inside. If the man wasn’t going to make him eat it now, it still seemed safer to save the bread. There was no guarantee that the man would be back. 

Saint or no, people left Castiel and they didn’t return. 

Castiel risked a glance up at the man’s face and Dean met his eyes with an easy smile.

“I used to do that too, ya know. I raised my brother on the streets of Paris. We had some hungry nights. Nowadays I keep a pretty well stocked pantry. It’s nice to have that assurance. This here cathedral keeps a pretty full kitchen too. I heard talk of there being some fish for supper and something with beans in it.”

The Saint continued to ramble and Castiel found himself drifting. He was a touch warm, felt full, had bread for later, and enjoyed the timbre of the Saint’s voice. 

“Judge Zachariah is the Master you mentioned earlier?” Dean’s voice was soft in the high-ceilinged bell tower, pulling Castiel from the easy warm fullness. 

_ Master. _ The tension was back in Castiel’s shoulders and his eyes immediately sunk to the floor. The words were gone, trapped deep in his throat and Castiel simply nodded to answer the Saint.

“And is he the one who hurts you?” Dean’s voice grew softer. Castiel felt the brush of fingers against a bruise on his cheek and he jerked back, eyes wide.

“Sorry! Did I hurt you?!”

Slowly, Castiel realized the gentle touch hadn’t hurt. It had been nice. _ Comforting _ , the word floated into Castiel’s mind from some far off place he hardly remembered. He shook his head horizontally in one somber motion - _ no _. 

He bit his lower lip and moved his gaze to Dean’s left knee. The tension built and built along his back and shoulders.

_ He wants to know about my Master. He’s a Hunter. He… He is kind. _

A cool breeze hit Castiel’s right shoulder and he looked to find his three ghosts intent on the conversation. Where they had been before he wasn’t sure, but their presence now was familiar and welcome.

“Tell him Castiel,” Sammandriel was the only one to speak. Coaxing, he repeated, “Tell him about the Judge, tell him how he hurts you. It’s okay to tell.”

Another beat passed before Castiel spoke.

“They are wounds from my Master’s hand,” Castiel saw anger flash in Dean’s eyes and quickly added, “however he had not meant them for me, but for another he cannot reach. My Master is responsible for the safety of all Paris. Much of the evil found within the city is my fault. He beats the evil, not me. He saves Paris. He is trying to save me.”

Dean was silent for a long time. Then, he took a deep breath and cleared his throat before speaking, his eyes catching Castiel’s with an intensity Castiel had never seen before.

“Cas, I don’t know what kind of evil you think is inside you, but no one deserves this kind of treatment. No one.” 

Dean looked away from him and began clearing the table of empty plates and used silverware.

“I uh, I just remembered I had a meeting with the Archbishop so I’m gonna go now. Later.” 

Castiel watched Dean’s hands as the man grabbed the basket and made his way quickly to the stairs, wishing all the while that those warm hands would hold his own cold ones or grasp his shoulder or gentle his sores again. But monsters were not owed the kindness of Saints nor their sincere words. 

As Dean’s footsteps faded away, any warmth that he had brought to the tower went with him. Castiel drew his coat tighter around his shoulders, ignoring the stares of the tower’s ever present spectral residents, and retreated to his alcove, too exhausted to think of the Saint any longer .

*****

“A fucking stool!” Was all the warning Pastor Jim got before Dean Winchester blew like a forest fire into his office. “He doesn’t even have a fucking stool!”

“Dean, I recognize you are upset but I would appreciate it if you remembered you are currently in a house of God. Now take a seat and tell me what is on your mind.”

Jim watched as Dean practically exhaled flames and violently pulled out a chair on the other side of the Archbishop’s desk. 

“There’s one stool up there padre and he won’t even sit on it. It’s _ his Master’s _ seat. Cas doesn’t even think he’s worthy to sit on a stool. A fucking stool! Oh but you know what he does think he deserves? Beatings. He’s some dark scourge threatening France and it’s dear Judge Fucking Zachariah’s crusade to beat it out of him. Hell, the kid hoards his food too, what’s that tell you, hunh? Is he starving to protect Paris too? God I bet that is what he thinks! He watched my hands most of the time Jim, my hands! I’d never hit him, on my mother’s grave, I swear it. But he hardly looked me in the eye, just my hands. Damn it!

“What the actual fuck though! I mean the hunters have shaken up some abusive husbands before, showed ‘em the errors of their ways. I take special pleasure in ass-kicking rapists and pedophiles before dropping them off for Sammy to prosecute but this! What the Judge has convinced Cas of, it’s so much worse!”

Dean cut off his tirade and looked with haunted eyes to the archbishop.

“I just… what do you say to someone who thinks their abuser is their goddamned savior?”

As Archbishop of the greatest Cathedral ever built Jim should have had something to say, some bible passage he could point to as explanation. But instead all he could do was sit and wonder how he’d let things get so bad. How he’d failed that small pale child who came to Notre Dame eighteen years ago. He almost begged Dean to stay silent when the younger man began speaking again, albeit with less fire.

“Pastor Jim, Cas’ … he’s just so… How could anyone do that to him? Make Cas think he was evil?” Dean’s eyes were shining and his voice sounded ready to break. Jim remembered back to the night of Cas’ arrival and the child’s strange ability as a medium with the dead. Zachariah knew of this trait. Jim realized in that instant Castiel’s gift was all the reason the Judge needed to take an interest in the poor boy, warping his self-image until the young man welcomed suffering. 

“Pastor Jim... ?” Dean sounded so small and reminded Jim of another child who had come into his Cathedral years ago for the burial of his mother. Dean had been so stoic back then, holding his father’s hand with a vice grip. 

Jim cleared his throat, willing himself into the present, “Castiel has had a very hard life. When we hear the messages of the Church, that God-”

“Don’t give me that religious bullshit! God has nothing to do with this!” Dean’s entire posture was tilted forward, sparks crackling in his eyes.

Raising one calming hand, Jim starred the younger man down. Sparks gave way to unshed tears as the younger man held back frustration. 

“Dean I understand you are upset, but do not interrupt me.” 

It wasn’t until Dean had settled that Jim continued, “As I was saying, the Church teaches that God has a hand in all, it is easier to believe that suffering is a necessary form of penance, useful in ridding oneself of internal evil. That mindset provides reason amidst the chaos.” 

Jim paused, taking a breath and allowing his own anger to build some. “Judge Zachariah is adept at twisting words and identifying just the right weakness of those he exploits. You know as well as any hunter that the man blackmailed his way into his position and now he holds it through extortion and fear mongering.” 

Pastor Jim sighed, continuing in a grave deeper tone, preventing his voice from carrying farther than the range of Dean’s hearing. 

“When I founded the hunters decades ago to bring him down… Well, let’s just say I thought we’d be able to get that rot out sooner. Your father’s a good man Dean, he’s done more in the past twenty years than I ever would have dared, but that demon still sits in his so called ‘Palace of Justice’ and now I find he’s been hurting an innocent in this House of God. That man needs to be stopped.”

The wateriness of Dean’s eyes had turned to steel.

“I’m with you Jim, all the way, Dad’s working on something now, something big. Can’t tell you more, you probably don’t want to know anyway. I know we’re getting close though. Real close.” 

“Good. Paris will be rid of that scourge.” 

Jim stood from his desk and peered out his office window at the square below, his shoulders sagged some. “Now, what to do about Castiel. It will not due to forget the victims Zachariah leaves in his wake.”

Dean’s brow furrowed in thought, “Some real furniture for one, and warmer clothes. I doubt that he’ll come out of his tower to seek comfort so we’ll have to bring it to him. That cold can’t be healthy. Food too, he’s skin and bones, as you saw. And Zachariah…” Dean paused and grimaced like he had a bad taste in his mouth, “Zachariah can’t be allowed anywhere near Cas. Cas’ too vulnerable and painfully loyal.”

“I will see what I can do about the Judge. Can you handle the rest?” 

The Archbishop knew it was wrong to take a backseat in helping rehabilitate Castiel, seeing as it was to a large degree his fault for not better protecting the child after Missouri’s passing. However, Jim also knew Dean. The young hunter was not one to sit idle and without a project he was liable to try and walk out of the guarded Cathedral doors, jail time be damned. It would not do to have Dean fall into Zachariah’s hands. The restless youth had too much spirit and knew too many of his father’s plans. Perhaps the arrangement would work perfectly: Dean could help Castiel while Castiel distracted Dean. 

_ The Lord does indeed work in mysterious ways. _Jim mused wryly to himself.

Dean stood and gave a disciplined nod, “Yeah, I’ll look after Cas. I’ll build him a freaking stool if I’ve got to.”

Before the younger man could exit the office, Jim felt compelled to speak his mind. 

“Thank you, Dean” he said willing all of his gratitude to be conveyed in those simple words. From the small sad smile Dean flashed as he closed the door behind him, Jim was certain the hunter had understood.

*****

Mary had been acting odd since Dean’s visit. She kept staring at the candle on the Master’s table, every now and again she’d make it light up before waving her immaterial hand through the flame, extinguishing it. Samandriel had told Castiel that Mary had died in a house fire and that in some rare instances, spirits gained abilities from the manner in which they had died. Mary could create flames like those that had consumed her in life.

After ringing the evening bells, Castiel approached his surrogate mother to ascertain the reason for her distracted melancholy.

However, before he could utter a syllable, Mary appeared right in front of Castiel’s face. She gripped his shoulders hard with her freezing hands that should have felt far less physical.

“Castiel you have to let me speak with him.”

“Ow, Mary, who?” Castiel had no memory of Mary being so agitated or speak as harshly. The tension and dread he typically felt when his Master arrived began locking up his body.

“Dean! My Dean, my little boy! I have to speak with him He’s got to see me. Please Castiel! Please! I can’t take it when he looks right through me!”

Mary’s eyes were wild as she pressed her face even closer to Castiel’s. Castiel turned and saw both Balthazar and Samandriel looking concerned and ready to jump in if need be. 

“Of course Mary,” Castiel’s voice quivered slightly. “How can I do that though? I’ve never tried to intentionally do something like this before.”

Mary’s smile turned gleeful with a feral edge. 

“It’s simple, I’ve got it all worked out. I’ll light the candle and you burn him just a little. Once the fire touches him, he should be able to see and hear me. I am a part of the flames, Castiel, don’t you see. Make him flame and a part of me once more!”

“What?! Burn him? No, Mary, no, I won't hurt him! I can't- He’s your son!”

“It has to be this way Castiel.” Mary snapped, her nails digging in deeply and her grip hard enough to bruise.

Mary’s expression became intense, desperate. Her voice lost any semblance of the kind tone Castiel was accustomed to.

“I will speak with my son.” Her tone left no option to refuse, “My boys were taken from me too long ago by fire. I have this one chance Castiel, one chance to speak with him. You will not take this from me Castiel!” 

Mary’s spectral form began to lose shape and diamond tears which Castiel hated more than his own began to stream down her face. He could not deny her anything, but he couldn't imagine hurting another. Especially his Saint.

“Mary, please, I’ll help but we need another way. Just wait a little longer, okay. Dean may be here awhile. If you can’t talk with him tonight then we’ll try again. Give me some time.” 

Castiel was relieved when Mary’s familiar form gained definition once more and she nodded her consent, wiping away her crystalline tears. Balthazar and Samandriel rushed forward to console a sniffling Mary, all the while sending Castiel nervous looks. 

It was no more than a minute later that Castiel could hear footsteps on the stairs paired with an odd scraping noise. Conditioned to move without thought, Castiel took up his usual kneeling position beside his Master’s seat at the table. Fear built a bubble in Castiel’s throat, making it hard to swallow. 

The bubble popped the instant Castiel heard, “Hey uh Cas? Can you help me? I thought I could get it all up here in one trip but I’m gonna drop something.”

Castiel practically sprinted down the spiral stairs until Dean came into sight bearing a huge blanket over his shoulders, a basket nearly overflowing with food cradled in one arm, and a stool precarious positioned under his other arm in a way that made one leg drag across the masonry of the staircase. 

Dean sent an apologetic smile in Castiel’s direction which warmed the bellringer’s heart. Not only had Dean returned as promised, but the man was coming with a smile just for Cas. Cas. The Saint had given him a new name too. Castiel found that he didn’t mind in the slightest, as long as only Dean got to use that name. 

Castiel swiftly liberated Dean of the stool and blanket then lead the way back to the bell tower. 

“How in the world does a twig like you lift that quilt like it weighs nothing?! I swear it’s made of lead it weighs so much! It was crushing me! Crushing me Cas!”

Castiel glanced down at the quilt in his arms. It was made of scrap clothing pieces of many colors and a variety of fabrics, none of which were lead or even metal based. He told Dean as much.

Dean laughed somewhere behind Cas. It was a beautiful sound, like a bell choir or the morning songs of Paris’ birds.

“Sure the blanket’s not actually made of lead, but it’s damn heavy. How in hell are you so strong?”

“I ring the bells” was Cas’ reply. “It takes a lot of strength. Where would you like these?” Castiel lifted the blanket and stool a bit higher to indicate what he was asking.

“Well if you don’t mind, let’s sit next to each other. We can share the blanket that way. It’s freaking cold in this tower, I don’t know how you can stand it!”

Castiel shrugged and set the stool next to his Master’s and held onto the blanket while Dean set out their meal. This meal was similar to the last, however, the soup was different. A hearty aroma teased Castiel’s senses as it lifted in curls of steam. Little chunks of pale fish and dark beans twirled in the broth with each pass of his spoon. Dean left something covered in the basket and gave a wink, some sort of surprise for later he assured Cas. 

Dean took a seat and made himself right at home, gesturing for Cas to join him at the small table. 

Castiel hesitated, his mind grappling with his heart. 

Eyeing the two stools, to fit on the same side of the table, even with even with Castiel’s slight starved stature, they had to press close enough to nearly be bumping shoulders. 

But to sit in his Master’s place…

“It’s okay Cas, it’s just a stool.” Dean’s voice was soft, kind even.

_ But I’m not _ , Castiel hugged the blanket to his chest, _ I can’t ruin him. _

“I’m dangerous.” Was all Cas could get out and he watched as Dean searched for a reply.

After a pause that had Castiel clenching his fists tightly in the fabric of the blanket, Dean spoke.

“So am I.”

“You’re not cursed though.” The words slipped out and Castiel wished instantly he could take them right back.

“Cursed? What do you mean?”

“I…” _ God please don’t let him leave like the others _! Castiel cursed his selfishness and made his choice. Dean had a right to know.

He said softly, “I… I am touched by an unholy power and my very presence puts your soul in danger.”

“Is that what the Judge told you?”

“He explained things, yes.”

“What proof do you have?”

_ None you can see. _ Castiel thought in a moment of self-disgust. 

“Everyone I have ever loved died within years of meeting me.” 

“My mother died when I was four. People die Cas, doesn’t make you cursed.”

“I…” _ I can see them after they die. _ He almost blurted out but Dean didn’t seem the sort to just accept Cas as dangerous. Castiel would just have to work extra hard to not taint the man.

Dean was Mary’s boy after all. Dean was different, different than Master, than the Archbishop, than anyone Cas had ever met. Maybe Dean would be different enough to break Castiel’s curse like in the fairy stories Anna used to tell him. 

Cas took a seat slowly and Dean gently pulled the blanket from Cas’ arms. Funny, he hadn’t even realized he’d loosened his grip. Before Dean threw the blanket over their shoulders he turned quickly and caught Cas’ eyes with his own before Castiel could even think to avoid eye contact. 

“Cas, I want to know I’d never hurt you, okay? You might not have much cause to trust me just yet, but I promise, I won’t hurt you. Ever.”

Cas nodded. He trusted Dean. Dean stole in the market square but never for himself. Dean kept his promise to return for dinner. Dean brought a stool. Dean was different.

In one smooth movement, Dean spread the blanket around them and began eating his soup with vigor, encouraging Cas to do the same. While Cas was thankful for the meal, a small part of him was worried that once Dean left - because different or not, eventually he would - Castiel would no longer be used to going days between meals. It was hard to get used to constant hunger, Castiel knew from experience. 

Cas pushed those thoughts back and enjoyed the prospect of a living human beside him radiating heat, and warm soup within him. He planned to soak in as much of this evening as he could.

And enjoyable it was! 

Dean had a way with words, talking in a way that didn’t require much input from Castiel but in no way made him feel left out. Dean did not comment this time when Cas had pocketed his bread roll.

Full and warm, Cas felt his body lean into the man seated beside him. His sleepless night catching up with him, Castiel felt his eyelids grow heavy as Dean began a story about using a dog to steal some sausages from a high end boucherie. 

Head lolling, Cas rested his head cautiously on Dean’s shoulder. The older man paused and for a moment it seemed they were both holding their breath before Dean launched back into his story. 

When the story ended, Dean asked in a tentative voice, “Cas, why aren’t you scared of me like earlier?”

Sleepily, Cas mumbled his answer.

“Sorry, I uh couldn’t quite hear ya.”

“You are different... from my Master.”

“Good different?” Dean had to ask.

Cas favored him with a nod and favored the other man with a small smile. 

Dean’s breath hitched and a rosy tint flushed his cheeks before he looked away, scraping the last of the soup from his bowl. Castiel felt his smile grow just a little larger.

*****

When they had finished their meals, Dean turned away from Cas for a second to draw the pie he’d baked as a surprise from the basket when he heard a cry of pain.

Dean turned to find Cas screaming like he was on fire. The candle at the center of their table burned with a flame ten centimeters high! Dean wasn’t the type to freeze in a stressful moment - but what exactly was wrong?!

Then, out of nowhere, Cas’ hand shot forward, grabbed the candle and brought the impossibly high flame to Dean’s arm.

“What the hell Cas?!” Dean shouted as he jumped back off his stool and away from the table, momentarily becoming entangled in the massive blanket.

Castiel pulled away as well, breathing heavily and cradling his arm close to his chest - the forgotten candle lay extinguished on the stone floor. Visibly shaking, Cas’ eyes were downcast and his posture fearful of retribution.

Dean rubbed at the small burn on the back of his hand and shook his head to clear it. 

_ Penance _. 

The bell ringer had warned him that there was an evil within. 

_ No, those are Zachariah’s words. _

Something _ was _ wrong, but Cas wasn't evil, that Dean had to believe.

Dean approached Cas cautiously as if the other man were a frightened and cornered animal. The smaller man had fallen backwards and was curled up on the floor, their tools overturned and blanket splayed over cold flagstone. 

Dean knelt beside Cas, making no move to touch the shaking bell ringer.

“Cas, what was that?” He asked using immense effort to keep his voice soft and coaxing. “Hey man, you can tell me, okay. I’m good different, remember?”

“She made me.” Cas shuddered as the whispered words passed his lips, “She promised she wouldn’t but then she made me. I didn’t want to- to hurt you. I never wanted to. She took my arm. She made me.”

“Who, Cas? Who made you?” Dean asked, worried. 

“Mary,” Cas moaned, “Mary made me. She wanted to talk with you. She said she needed to and thought fire would work. I begged her not to. Refused to help like this. I didn’t want to hurt you. She grabbed my arm and made me. I swear!” Cas’ voice had raised to a near shout.

“Mary? Cas, who is Mary?”

“Your mother.” Castiel ground out, shoulders shaking slightly.

“What the hell? What do you mean my mom? She _ died _ twenty years ago.” Screw it, there was no way Dean was masking his frustration, his disbelief. 

“I swear, I’m not lying. Mary did it. Mary _ made _ me.”

“Shit Cas, stop lying about my mom!” More heat slipped into Dean’s tone.

“I’m NOT LYING!” Cas full out screamed, moving his hands from his chest to cradle his head which appeared to be in agonizing pain. A small trail of blood began to drip from his nose. 

Dean sat back on his heels unsure once again what he should do when an incredible wave of heat flared up behind him. Turning, Dean found himself face to face with a living breathing copy of is his mother as he remembered her before she died nineteen and a half years ago. 

Dean rose from his crouch and approached her warily, “Mom?”

Mary smiled indulgently and held out her arms for him, “It’s me Dean.” 

Dean held his mother close, burying his face in her golden curls. She smelled of lavender, baking bread, Sunshine for heaven’s sake! God! How he’d missed her. Caught up in the moment, Dean missed the subtle burnt scents which clung to his mother’s hair. 

“Jesus! How is this even possible? Mom, how… how are you here?”

Mary gently cupped Dean’s cheek in one of her hands and looked at Dean as if he was all she could ever ask for. 

“My body rests beneath Notre Dame. Where a body lays the soul may stay as well. I’ve waited so long to see you again Dean, to speak with you. And after all the time, Castiel did it! I wanted to- He asked me to wait, but I was losing myself. It seemed so important, but Oh God! Dean, what have I done?!” 

Mary dropped her hand from Dean’s cheek and rushed past him to kneel at Castiel’s side. The fragile man’s eyes were unfocused and his lips moved silently. He seemed nearly catatonic but shied away from her touch when she reached out to him. 

Mary lifted Cas’ head and laid it gently in her lap, stroking her warm fingers through his tangled curls. “Castiel, baby? You in there? Sweetheart I’m so sorry. I should never have done that to you!”

Dean dropped to his knees beside Mary, his eyes still large a saucers and fixed on her as he watched his mother minister over the bell ringer. 

“Mom, I don’t understand, you’ve been here in Notre Dame for almost twenty years, just what? Waiting? And he- Cas brought you back to life?”

Without breaking her rhythm of strokes combing Castiel’s hair, she looked guiltily at Dean, “I couldn’t move on honey, there was no paradise for me without my family, so I stayed and I watched you from the bell tower. I watched you and Sammy grow up and baby I couldn’t be more proud of you two!”

Dean wiped away a tear as he tried to wrap his mind around all of this.

“And Cas? Is he really… cursed?”

“He’s a _ psychic _ Dean. That bastard Zachariah made up lies to control him. He’s using him, hurting him! It’s gotten so bad and we can’t do anything, the other ghosts and I. Only Cas can see us, hear us.”

Dean eyed the younger man who lay staring blankly at the tower’s high ceilings.

“What _ did _you do to him?”

“You couldn’t see it, dear, but I grabbed his hand, I used his body to burn you. I thought the fire... That maybe if I could just.. It doesn’t matter what I thought, I was wrong and Castiel knew it.”

“You promised” Castiel whispered from her lap.

Mary let out a relieved sob at the psychic’s gravelly voice, “That’s right baby, I promised. I’m so sorry I broke that promise. I was wrong, I’m so sorry!”

Dean was still admittedly lost. “If you were wrong, why are you here now?”

Mary smiled weakly down at Castiel, “my plan didn’t work, but Castiel made a promise as well, said he’d find another way. And he did. He brought me here, Dean. I don’t know how, but Castiel pulled me from where I was stuck and brought me here.”

Dean stared down at the pale young man crumpled on the ground before him. Not much was making sense, but one thing was certain: Cas was once again in pain he didn’t deserve. 

Castiel’s eyes were half lidded now and he was mumbling now, saying things which Dean only caught bits and pieces of. Names like Gabriel and Michael were most all Dean could catch. The blood oozing lazily from Cas’ nose was stark against too-pale skin. 

“Is he going to be okay?” Dean asked. 

“I believe so. He’s done something like this once before but with fragments of hundreds of spirits angrier and more crazed than I was. He needs rest and care. Will you help me move him to bed?”

Dean scooped up Cas’ thin frame and carried him to where Mary directed while she gathered the large quilt from where it lay sprawled upon the ground. The alcove which Castiel considered a bed was tiny and as cold as the rest of the bell tower. 

“No wonder he always looks so tired,” Dean mused under his breath.

Mary came in, stretched the blanket out over Castiel, tucked him in, used a napkin she’d grabbed from the table to wipe the blood from beneath Castiel’s nose, and gave him a chaste kiss on the forehead. She then took Dean’s hand and lead him out to the main room of the bell tower. 

*****

Castiel woke to light filling his alcove and a pounding in his skull. He rubbed small circles around his forehead in a fruitless effort to dissipate the pain. Spurred by the need to relieve himself, Castiel untangled his limbs from the quilt Dean had brought up.

Dean. Mary! The events of the evening came sweeping back and pain flared once more through Castiel’s head. He fell sideways into the wall clutching his hands to his forehead and gasping audibly.

“Cas?!” Dean’s voice came from around the corner. As Cas began to slide down the wall nursing his headache, a sleepy looking Dean appeared.

“Woah, hey buddy, take it easy there.” Dean reached out to help Cas up but Castiel drew away causing Dean to hesitate. “I’m not going to hurt ya. I’ll put some water on to boil and we’ll just sit together, alright?”

Dean waited for Cas’ brisk nod before helping the bell ringer to his feet. They made a slow walk to the table and as promised, Dean stirred up the fire, quickly placing a kettle on to boil. He spoke while his hands were busy.

“Glad to see you up and about. Scared me last night. So you um... you actually see ghosts?”

Dean wasn’t sure if Cas would answer at first. The bell ringer continued to sit hunched over the table with his head laid in his hands. When Dean had given up on an answer he heard Cas’ quiet confirmation, “Yes. I see spirits.”

“And you… you talk with them?”

“Yes Dean. I talk with them.” Cas’ voice came clipped.

“Cool, alright. Um and my mom… you uh, you see her lots?”

“She raised me.” Cas whispered then lifted his head and looked around, blinking owlishly. “Where is Mary?” He asked, turning to look at Dean by the fireplace. 

Dean scratched his neck and busied himself with tidying the wood pile. 

“She and I spoke some after you were out. She said whatever you did wouldn’t last long. The in-between she’d been in for years was trying to pull her back. Uh, something about the dead having no place among the living - no body to contain the soul you somehow made corporeal. That make any sense to you?”

Castiel stared out the window at the square below Notre Dame, his gaze seemingly unfocused. “I suppose. Where is she now?”

“Gone I guess. She said she wanted to visit my father before she went back to being invisible and... well, trapped here.”

Castiel allowed his head to once again be supported by his hands which rubbed deeply into his forehead.

“She’ll be back then. Her soul cannot stray far from where she’s buried.”

Dean took a deep breath and nodded. Cas could practically read the other man’s thoughts as expressions flashed across his face. 

Mary’d been trapped here, in Notre Dame for nearly twenty years, in this this God-forsaken bell tower raising the broken bell ringer. 

Dean spoke after a prolonged silence.

“I know I promised some warm water, but I’m famished. How about I go get us some food? You just sit tight.” 

Without another glance in Castiel’s direction, Dean retreated down the spiraling stairs.

Sadly, Castiel watched the small flames dance in the fireplace beneath the kettle. He hardly used this particular bell tower amenity – only every other morning when he could expect his master to visit because obtaining fuel would have required him to leave the tower. He recalled however, when he’d been young and Missouri saw to his well-being, Mary had used the fire to tell him stories. She would command the flames to take the shapes of knights and castles, recanting the ancient lore of King Arthur and his round table. 

The fire had died down to glowing embers by the time she returned. 

“Good, you’re awake.” She opened softly, coming to sit beside him. Mary had faded once more, no longer a member of the physical realm. 

“Castiel, I want to apologize again. What I did… There is no excusing my-“

“You have to go.” Castiel whispered, his tone unwavering but his heart breaking.

“I know.” She sighed and took his hand gently. “It was only a matter of time I suppose. We spirits all seem to become twisted by time.”

“I can’t protect you. Missouri warned me, told me to look after you. I just don’t know how.” Misery and sorrow threaded through Castiel’s words.

“Oh, baby, it was never your burden to protect me, especially not from myself. As a mother, my job was to protect you. I have failed you time and time again at the hands of Zachariah. What happened last night…What I did to you - forcing you, hurting you, taking away your choice - these were perhaps my greatest sins. We both know if I stay my mind will only become lost once more. I promise you I won’t be responsible for hurting you again.” 

Mary stood resolutely and gestured for Castiel to do the same. 

Facing him, she spoke, “Castiel, you gave me a gift I never thought I would have: a chance to see my boys and John again, to say the goodbyes the fire never permitted. You are a miracle between the kindness you hold in your heart and the work the Lord permits you to do. I pray Dean can ease your suffering and can show you a life beyond this tower. Seek your own happiness my son, no one deserves to live this life alone.” She graced him with one final smile before folding her spectral arms around him. From their embrace he felt her pass on into the next life.

His knees became weak at the realization of his loss and permitted a few tears to wet the flagstone floor. 

“You broke your promise,” He whispered in the empty room. She had vowed to never hurt him again and yet his heart ached the same way it had eighteen years ago when Gabe and Anna, Michael and Papa left his in the freezing snow. Alone in the cold.

With Mary’s passing the last of the fire’s embers extinguished. 

_ How appropriate _, Castiel thought. 

Mary was fire and – as was the case when, Michael, Missouri, and all the others had left him – Castiel was =cold.

*****

Dean took his time in the cathedral’s kitchen. Ellen, the strong willed Matron of the Roadhouse, his surrogate aunt, and boss, had been the one to teach him the culinary arts. She had a knack for taking sparse ingredients and preparing a wholesome meal so coveted among the poor in Paris. It was only after her husband’s death on a “hunting” trip that Ellen had learned about the underground network and John Winchester’s role as its leader. She disapproved heartily of how John neglected his boys in his crusade to “save Paris” – a ruse, she recognized, to hide his quest for vengeance. 

The story of Mary Winchester’s death had become somewhat of a legend in the streets of Paris. It began with the brave and talented blacksmith John Winchester who refused the Judge his forge to build weapons and arm the Judge’s forces against the people they had been intended to defend. One week from John’s public refusal – making him somewhat of a local hero – the Winchester’s humble home in the third _arrondissement_ had been set alight. There had been little doubt in anyone’s mind who had commissioned the act of arson. Zacharaih had wanted to send a message: opposition would not be permitted. John had Mary’s remains laid beneath Notre Dame and he then took up the mantle of Hunter King. Dean’s life had changed in an instant. 

Dean raided the cathedral’s root cellar and began preparing a simple yet substantial meal for Castiel. He did not blame his mother for dying, John for giving up fatherhood to seek revenge, or Sam for being a snot nosed kid while Dean had to fill the roles of two parents. Dean sighed while he chopped vegetables with the speed of a practiced chef. He certainly did not blame Castiel for having known Mary for more years than he ever would. 

Dean punched into a lump of dough as he reflected on the one person he did blame. Judge Zachariah would find soon enough just how it felt to be hunted.

*****

It had taken Dean a good two hours to prepare the meat and vegetable pies he had mastered under Ellen’s stern tutelage. Two hours to sift through his thoughts and emotions. It was time to return to Castiel and work toward further repairing the broken man.

Burdened with a tray full of food, Dean headed towards the single spiral stair which would deliver him to the bell tower. Unexpectedly, a feminine hand curled around his bicep. From the corner of his vision, Dean spotted blond hair plaited beneath a modest veil and smiled.

“Might have to come to church more often if there’s Hot Stuff like you included in the package,” Jo’s soft mockery made his grin only grow

“If you’re looking for a husband you’ve come to the wrong place. All these men have taken vows of abstinence.” It was too late before Dean realized he’s served her comedic gold on a silver platter.

“All of them? I never thought I’d see the day when Dean Winchester turned down the carnal pleasures! I can see the headlines now: Breaking news! Notorious Ladies Man Goes Celibate! ”

Sighing, Dean replied to the surrogate little sister he never asked for, “All the men _ of the cloth _ Jo, I’m not the sort and you know it.”

Ellen’s daughter laughed lightly, “Boy do I ever! It wouldn’t hurt you to slow down a bit. You’ll want to know, Lisa found out about that dark beauty you tumbled.”

“Yeah well Lisa and Cassie both knew I wasn’t serious. I don’t lie to any of the women I’m with Jo. So, what brings you to _ Our Lady _? Looking for advice on wooing your beloved airhead Ash?

Jo used her free hand to bat Dean’s should with considerable force.

“Shut it Dean, he’s as much a brother as you are – though far less obnoxious.”

She dropped her voice to a far more serious pitch, stating, “I have prayers to say, a few you need to listen to.”

Acknowledging the old hunter code, Dean steered them towards the secluded chapel. He set the tray down quietly before kneeling beside Jo in front of the towering marble likeness of saint-what’s-his-face. Jo’s head was bowed reverently, eyes closed and Dean followed suit, holding his questions in until she felt ready to speak.

“Sam stopped by looking for you. Mentioned your mom, said it was urgent. Guess he, like the rear of us, thought you'd be out of here by now.”

Dean stiffened in surprise, “I work at the Roadhouse for years and now he decides to come in for a drink. Bad timing.” Dean hoped his brother was okay after what must have been their mom visiting Sam before Cas’ psychic mojo wore off.

“Yeah well, can you blame him? You’re trapped, Zachariah has it out for you _ personally _, and Sam can’t do a thing about it.”

Dean sighed, “He doesn’t have to. He made his choice and – never tell him I said this – but he made a good one. What my dad and I do… Sam never would be happy staying in the life.”

Jo hummed her assent. 

“Dean, I’m not really here cause of Sam. Your father sent me. He wants to know why you haven’t left yet.”

“There’re guards at every exit, this place is under watch day and night!”

Jo leveled him a side-eyed stare and smirked, “That’s never stopped you before. Seriously Dean, he wants an answer.”

Dean couldn’t help but shift a bit under her stare. Jo had a way of upsetting his balance and she knew it. John probably knew it too, hence why the blond was here instead of a friend like Caleb.

“I’ve found myself a project here and I wasn’t ready to leave.”

Jo raised an eyebrow, “Does this project include you being a holy waiter? Come on Dean! Banging some nuns is not going to fly with the boss.”

“I’m not banging anyone!” Dean’s whisper had a bit too much volume behind it turning a few heads, their gazes placing judgement on the duo. Jo and Dean resumed their guise of prayerful positions before Dean continued. “He’s one of Zachariah’s victims. He lives here in the church.”

“Bell ringer, right?” Jo’s pious expression became smug in an instant at Dean’s surprise. “Sam told me you’d met him during the festival.”

“Sam sure has been talkative lately,” Dean grumbled.

Jo dropped the arrogance in favor of a softer, more sisterly approach, “Sounded like your boy was in bad shape.”

“You don’t know the half of it. I knew the Judge was a right bastard, but Jo, what Cas has suffered, it’s downright evil.”

“Then it’s good he’s got you.” Shit. Jo suddenly realized how deep Dean had gotten himself involved here. The man had been gone for two days and already found himself some battered kid to look after. The damned mother hen worked fast.

She sighed, hating the having to make Dean choose between one duty and another. Then again, did any of them really have a choice in the end? 

Jo steeled herself before turning to look Dean directly in the eyes. Her tone brokered no discussion.

“The Hunter King is waiting for you. He’s ready and you know him, he’ll make his move with or without you. Between us, he needs you for this plan to work and Paris needs her _ Righteous man _.” 

Dean rolled his eyes at the name, but his face was still drawn, his expression dark. 

Jo placed a comforting hand on Dean’s shoulder, her eyes softening a touch, she knew this would be hard on him. 

“Save Paris with us and you’ll save your bell ringer in the process. Leave for a short time, backup your father, help lead his men. When the Judge can’t hurt your bell ringer any longer, you can finish your rescue mission.”

Dean continued to kneel beside Jo, his head bent and grit his teeth. Yesterday… today… it had all been too much. First finding Cas to be the equivalent of a beat puppy, then reuniting briefly with his mother, and now these – these _ summons _ from his father, the self-proclaimed king of the Parisian underground. 

Jo was right though. Dean needed to help save Paris. If they were going after the Judge, Dean sure as hell wanted in on it. For his mother who burned on the Judge’s orders. For Sammy who grew up motherless. For Castiel. Dean gripped his hands together so tightly the knuckles whitened. 

“We’re moving tonight I’m guessing?” He ground out. Jo nodded once. “Tell my old man I’ll be there. I have a few loose ends to tie up first.” 

Jo was just about to take her leave when they heard a commotion coming from the narthex. The Judge barreled into the sanctuary flanked by a handful of guardsmen. Fury seemed to emanate from Zachariah, permeating the cathedral’s air.

Dean stood swiftly and pulled Jo up from her kneeling position. 

“Find the Archbishop, go!” he whispered urgently before tearing off towards the spiral stair at the sanctuary entrance. 

As much as Dean wanted to face the Judge right then and there, he couldn’t. His father had a plan, a good plan to usurp the judge with the people’s consent. He would not jeopardize all they had worked for. 

As Dean wove between pillars, he realized that the Judge was headed in the same direction: the bell tower stairs. Dean’s green eyes met with the Judge’s for an instant. There was something there in the foul man’s gaze besides hatred and wrath, some other emotion Dean had no name for but it made a shiver run down his spine. 

Dean broke the poisonous connection and increased his pace for the stairs, hoping movement would shake loose the dirty feeling which had come over him. Hoping he could reach Cas first. 

*****

Castiel did not have the best hearing, but that wasn’t surprising as he rung massive bells daily whose tolls echoed through his limbs and knocked around his skull. There were however a few sounds he was attuned to picking up on. Footsteps on the stairs for example, or the tinkling of the tack particular to his Master’s carriage. 

It was the later that Castiel picked out among mid-morning bird song and market chatter. The Judge had never come so early before. 

Never. 

Unless Castiel had been bad. 

There had been times in the early days after Missouri’s death and Sister Megan had disappeared when Castiel would get mad and rebel against his Master as Lucifer once resisted the will of God. He knew now that it was the wickedness within him that had taken root and incited such defiance. 

Castiel knew now; Master’s will was not to be challenged. 

Castiel had only a few jobs that the Master expected of him: keep to himself to avoid endangering others, assist in interrogating the spirits of murderous hunters to protect the innocent of Paris, and of course ring the bells thrice daily for morning, noon, and evening masses to bring the faithful closer to God. 

Ring the bells...

Ring the bells! 

With all the events of the night before, Castiel had slept through ringing the morning bells! 

On shaking legs, Castiel made his way from beside the cold fireplace to the center of the room and knelt, head bent in remorse. His Master would not appreciate having to find Castiel if he hid - that lesson had been painfully learned years ago. Master would be pleased to find Castiel waiting for his penance to be delivered at the end of a rod or a fist. 

Castiel did his best to stop shaking. This situation however was an unknown. In the seven years since his Master had entrusted ringing the bells to Castiel, the young man had never failed to perform, not once. Footsteps pounding up the stairs signifying the inevitable.

“Cas?!” 

Dean’s feet pounded as he ran up the bell tower steps. Castiel heard him breach the landing, stumble briefly and then approach where Castiel knelt, shivering beside his Master’s stool. Dean crashed to his knees in front of Castiel and wrapped his arms around Castiel’s cold frame.

“I won’t let that bastard get you. I promise you, as long as I breathe he will never harm you again.” Dean breathlessly swore. 

Castiel leaned into Dean, his body losing rigidity, too tired to do anything else. 

“You’ll break that promise.” He mumbled into Dean’s shoulder.

“Maybe,” Dean replied honestly, clutching Castiel more tightly to his chest, “But if I can stop him, I will Cas. I will.”

With that Dean lifted Castiel from the floor and helped Cas move back to the sleeping mat in the alcove, wrapping the quilt around the two of them, still holding Cas against him.

After a long yet heavy silence, Castiel whispered to Dean, “She returned while you were gone.”

“Is she here now?” Dean asked, a child’s hope coming through his voice.

Cas shook his head, staring resolutely at the stone floor. “Moved on.”

Surprisingly, Dean let out a relieved sigh. 

“I know we laid her to rest some twenty years ago, but it’s nice to know she’s really at peace now.”

The content quiet that followed was disrupted by noise in the street and the sound of a carriage departing.

“My Master left” Castiel uttered in a dead voice.

“Good riddance” Dean grunted, tightening his arms to hold Castiel even closer. 

The silence stretched on after that until Dean broke it some time later asking, “Cas, tell me what you’re thinking”. 

There was a pregnant pause. Finally, Castiel spoke each word slowly, his voice gravelly and monotone..

“I am wicked, a monster that others can scarcely be around. My family died and refused to stay. Sister Missouri moved on without me. Sister Megan was reprimanded and removed days after being entrusted with my care. Mary’s spirit was beginning to taint after so long in my presence. Now, even my Master is too displeased to come offer me penance for forgetting the bells. I am vile and you would be wise to maintain your distance less my darkness ruins you as well.”

“Damn it Cas!” Dean rubbed his face with one hand while keeping the other wrapped around Castiel. 

“The Judge left because the Bishop made him. We will not let that man hurt you. You were sick this morning, by no fault of your own. You would have rung the bells if you were feeling well. Everyone deserves freaking sick days!” Dean let out an exasperated sigh. 

“I need pie,” was all he said before getting up and leaving the alcove, a confused bundled-up Castiel in his wake. 

Pie turned out to be delicious and come in many forms. Dean apologized that neither his meat pie (which he had returned to the cathedral’s sanctuary in search of) nor his dessert pie (the surprise he’d mentioned the night before the ghost drama) were warm. Castiel did not mind in the least. Dean’s pies, he decided, were his favorite food. 

After the pies, Castiel performed his evening bell duties. He’d then proceeded to introduce each metal monstrosity to Dean. As it turned out, Castiel had assigned a name and story to every one of them – the very largest to palm-sized. As the sun began to set, the two men traveled up to the cathedral’s roof and shared the last of the apple pie while watching the red hues paint the Parisian sky.

_ Warm _. 

The term popped into Castiel’s mind as he tried to identify the way he was feeling. The single word felt right despite the fact that his hands were freezing and his ears ached from the late winter wind. Dean Winchester had made him feel warm with conversation and pie. The man must truly be a saint after all.

Or maybe not.

Conversation had slowed to a crawl. Castiel was unaccustomed to initiating dialogue and Dean… it felt like he was building up to something he desperately did not want to say. From the corner of his eye, Castiel saw Dean take a deep breath and turn to better face Cas. 

“Hey Cas, there’s something I need to tell ya.”

_ Here it comes. _

Castiel steeled himself before shifting to look Dean in the eyes, his face arranged into a blank mask. 

“Cas, I… My Dad… Damn” Dean swore and looked back over the city, unable to find the words to start.

“You’re leaving.” Cas’ voice was soft, without judgement and matter-of-fact. Dean flinched all the same and nodded.

“What do you know about the Hunter’s Cas?”

Now it was Cas’ turn to stare at the sky’s fading colors, biting his lip in consternation. 

“They are very bad people.” He started, “They look to hurt Paris. Hunters killed my family. They're monsters… My Master is trying to stop them, to find where they are based. He um… He…” Cas clenched his fists tightly on the tops of his thighs and fruitlessly fought the tears which were insisting to fall. 

Coaxing, Dean placed a hand on Castiel’s back and asked, “What did the Judge do? You can tell me Cas, honest.”

“He has me call them back!” tears began to stream down his cheeks as Castiel folded in on himself. “My Master brings me items they had in life – a hunter’s hat or wedding band. I focus on what they left behind and I… I don’t really know what I do. But they come back.”

“Like my mom?” Dean queried in a whisper, his arm wrapping around Castiel’s shoulders and holding him tightly.

Castiel shook his head before replying, “No. Not like Mary. Not physically there. Only I can see them. He asks them questions and I have to relay their answers.”

Dean’s blood ran cold. His father had been searching for a rat within the Hunters for years, someone who was leaking intelligence. No one would have ever guessed the dead would be the guilty party. This didn’t add up though, Dean knew the fallen Hunters and none of them would have given up secrets if the Judge asked. Unless…

“Does he hurt them? Torture them when he interrogates them?” Dean hated asking.

Castiel shivered, answering Dean’s question. 

“He has a way of hurting them if they don’t answer right away… Salt and fire.”

Cas’ shaking voice spoke volumes despite being barely above a whisper. Tormenting souls was just one more way the Judge had hurt Castiel. 

Dean took another look at the shrunken figure in the tan coat, noting something he’d been missing for too long.

“Your coat. Did it belong to a Hunter?”

Bobbing his head in confirmation, Cas sat up straight and smoothed out wrinkles in the fabric. 

“My Master brought it but no one came when I called. Without a ghost attached, there was no need to burn the coat.”

Dean rolled a bit of the coat’s fabric between his thumb and forefinger.

“It belonged to a man named Jimmy. Didn’t know him well but he seemed like a bright guy, bit too religious, but nice. Good family man too. He’d of wanted you to have his coat, keep you warm. Jimmy was that kind of guy.” 

Dean watched as Cas drew the coat more tightly about his shoulders perhaps to reassert his claim over the thin coat or as added protection against the biting wind.

“You know I’m a Hunter, right Cas?”

Cas froze for a second before nodding once.

“Do you… Do you think I’m also a monster?”

Turning with vigor, Castiel stared Dean directly in the eyes saying, “No! Never! You are the opposite of a Monster! You’re a saint!"

Dean chucked once at Castiel’s energy, “Paris calls me a _ Righteous Man _ and now you’re going for Saint. Why?”

With great solemnity Castiel spoke, “You protect people. You make sure people had food, I’ve seen you steal from those with lots but you never keep any of it. You give it to others who have nothing.”

Dean’s eyebrows arched at that, not realizing he’d had an audience watching him partake in his hobby.

Castiel continued in a barely audible voice, “And you look after me. You cooked food for me. You carried that blanket all the way up the tower and built a fire to keep me warm. And the stool! Dean, I haven’t sat at a table in seven years! You did that! You are not a monster.”

Dean slowly took Castiel’s hand into his own, providing ample time for the other man to pull away should he feel the need. 

“Thanks Cas, for seeing me that way. Sometimes I’m outside the law but I wonder if Man’s laws are the same as God’s laws, ya know.”

Dean took a stalling breath before continuing, “I don’t ever want to hurt you, to lose that trust. But, you were right earlier, I do have to leave, only for a short time, I have to go do the work of a Hunter, protecting Paris from the wicked.”

Castiel looked down at their hands folded together and turned it curiously over, admiring the interlacing of their fingers.

“I know. You do not belong in the Cathedral and your time here has only ever been finite. It has been nice, though, to not be alone.”

“I’ll be back soon Cas, promise.” Dean implored earnestly.

Cas smiled softly and gently pulled his hand from Dean’s. 

“Do you take pleasure in making impossible promises?”

“Hey! This one is not impossible! I will come back, I just need to help the Hunter’s for a short time.” Dean sounded a touch sheepish in his retort.

“When do you intend to leave?” Cas kept his emotions protected from Dean behind an unreadable mask.

“Tonight.” Dean hung his head, “Do you mind if I borrow some of your bell repair rope? I think it could climb down the side here just before a changing of the guards, then I could-”

“Why not simply leave among the crowd of parishioners after the evening Mass? As they flood out, you can blend in, the guards will be unable to notice you.”

Dean paused, eyes wide and Castiel realized he’d just cut the other man off. His cheeks burned and he dropped his gaze.

After a beat, Dean laid a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and favored Cas with a radiant smile.

“It’s so simple it’s brilliant!” He moved as if to draw Castiel into a hug, but froze when they heard the swell of a hymn coming from the sanctuary. 

“That is the final hymn. Dean, if you are to leave tonight you must go now.” 

Cas’ eyes betrayed his pain while speaking those words. 

Reaching for Castiel’s hand once more, Dean look Cas in the eyes and urgently implored, “Cas, come with me. There is nothing for you here!”

Resolutely Castiel held his ground and spoke clearly, “No. I cannot leave hallowed ground.”

“Not true!”

Cas merely stared back in silence. Dean’s mind raced to find a way to convince the bell ringer to join him.

“Cas, you’re awesome and gifted and a million other things but not evil! I won’t lie to you Cas!”

Cas didn’t waver and Dean was out of time; the melody of the hymn was dying down, the service nearly over.

“Shit Cas! I’m gonna stay. I can’t leave you like this.”

Using their connected hand, Castiel jerked Dean towards the staircase, and solemnly spoke as they lost physical connection, “Go Dean. This is your best chance.”

Dean reached beneath his shirt and pulled a cord hard - a brass amulet falling into his hand. Pressing the warm metal into Castiel's palm, he said in earnest, "If you need a Hunter Cas, show them this. It's a promise. If I can't free you, one of us will!"

And then Dean was moving, his feet drawing him towards the life he’d had before meeting Castiel, the life of a Hunter. Dean called to Castiel over his shoulder, “Don’t do anything stupid. Stay safe. Make sure to eat something! And for God’s sake stay warm!”

Once he could no longer hear Dean’s echoing footsteps on the stone stairs Castiel drew his tan coat, a Hunter’s coat, closer around his shoulders. The the brass amulet already cooling in his palm, Castiel found himself missing his saint. 

*****

Dean Winchester had escaped. 

“Define ‘escaped’.” Judge Zachariah bit out as he stared into the flames filling his colossal fireplace.

The Judge’s shadow loomed menacingly over the skinny guardsmen at his back. The young man shuffled his feet nervously causing the soft sound of leather on stone to bounce off the walls of the Judge’s chamber, mixing with the crackle of the flames and occasional pop of wet wood. 

_ Let him fret, _ Zachariah mused, _ there is no room for imperfection within the Palace of Justice. _

At last the man spoke slowly, trying to cover a slight quiver, “The captive, Dean Winchester, is no longer within _ Our Lady _.”

The judge turned away from the roaring fire and stalked towards the guardsman. “How can you call Dean Winchester a captive if he set _ himself _ free?”

The guardsman opened him mouth to respond just as the judge cut him off, “That was a rhetorical question you lout! How could Winchester escape when the Cathedral was surrounded by thirty men?!”

The guard stood silently, refusing to make eye contact.

“That question was _ NOT _ rhetorical!!! Tell me, you incompetent worm, how did Winchester escape?!”

“My lord, we are unsure. It was sometime since your last visit to the Cathedral-”

“Three days!?! You had no idea where the man was for THREE DAYS?!” 

The guardsman looked ready to wet himself.

The judge turned back to his fireplace before calling out, “You are dismissed.” 

Frantic foot falls marked the guard’s hurried exit. 

Zachariah leaned against the masonry of his fireplace and gazed deeply into the flames. 

“Heavenly Father,” the whisper of a pray on his lips, “I do not understand. The life I have led has been pure, free from carnal acts and the sins of the body. I am as just as a man can be, following holy law and enforcing the laws of men as no other could. You in Your greatness have made me the Judge of all Paris!” 

Zachariah pounds a fist against the mantle.

“I am Righteous! I am the Law!” He calls out angrily to the fire, “Yet now there is Winchester, the people call him the ‘Righteous Man’. They say he is selfless, that his thievery is not villainous in nature. His grin so charming no one minds when he robs them! The hearts of the city have fallen under his spell!”

Pausing to catch his breath, Zachariah’s eyes widen in realization. 

“Dear God! Have I too been charmed? Is that why I have come to desire him so ardently? Before this moment Lord I had no idea how I could feel this strongly for another man? But now it all makes sense. Why to me his green eyes are emeralds, his smile radiant, the sun kissed freckles on his cheeks calling for my touch!

“I feel a heat stirring in my stomach, a desire stronger than I've ever experienced for a woman before! This is a devil’s temptation! This fire in my gut is not the pleasure of arousal but divine warnings of the hellfire which awaits me!

“Father forgive me! This is not my fault! I would never never have these thoughts! It must be Winchester’s foul magic! He’s done this to me! Witchcraft! There is no other explanation! He steals the image of righteousness from me in the eyes of Paris! He mocks me and keeps me from what should be mine! He openly steals in Paris, _ My city _ and supports the work of the Hunters to undermine me and my seat of power! He uses dark forces against me, to ruin me and my soul for this world and the next!” 

Zachariah’s words flew like frenzied bees, his skin stung, nearly burned by his proximity to the roaring open hearth.

Determined, he promised to the flames, “I know of only one way to defeat a witch – to ensure his spell ends and to set free the enchanted. I must use hellfire of my own design. Man can defy this devil’s will if the witch is burned at the stake!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that last bit did not in any way live up to the song "Hellfire" which is arguably the best villain song of the Disney renaissance, but you get the idea!
> 
> To help clarify for those not familiar with the french language, the name Notre Dame is french for _ Our Lady _ (referring to the Virgin Mary). When characters talk about "Our Lady" in this story, they're talking about the cathedral.  
On that note, an _arrondissement_ is a bit like a district in a city. Paris today has twenty arranged in shell-like spiral. Notre Dame is located in the 4th arrondissement.
> 
> All feedback is appreciated! Kudos and comments as you are able are also much loved <3  
Take care of yourselves! The final chapter will be posted soon-ish! (hopefully)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you following along with this story - Thank you! - AND I added a quick bit to the end of chapter 3 wherein Dean gives Cas the Samulet -- I forgot to include that tidbit originally but it's there now and important for chapter 4 :)  
Sorry for any confusion!!!

Sam’s heart pounded in his chest as he stood, ear pressed against the seam of the two heavy oak doors to the Judge’s office. The parchment of his weekly dispatch crumpled in a fist as tight as the one frozen mid-knock centimeters from the dark wood. The judge’s voice had stopped his hand from falling to request entry, the judge spitting out the name he’d grown up under like a curse: _ Winchester_. 

_ Dean_.

As the judge’s speech grew more and more fanatic, Sam couldn’t help but listen. With each word dread filled him. The Judge was a madman. If captured Dean will burn.

Swallowing against the panic rising within, the young captain turned neatly on his heel and moved with purpose out of the Palace of Justice onto the street – if anyone could safe Dean it was their father - Hunter King in the Court of Miracles. 

Fear clouding judgement, Sam didn’t feel the burning gaze which watched him from a palace window high above or how two men peeled off from the shadows dogging his steps as he moved across the city.

*****

“Right! Left! Cut! Again!” 

The women performed the choreographed punches under Dean’s watchful eye. Jo had come to him nearly two years back demanding he teach the women of Paris to defend themselves. Mutual friend Bobby Singer lent them the floor of his carpenter shop one night a week to hold classes. Tonight the room was full of women from all walks of life – seamstresses and barmaids, prostitutes, nannies, and merchants. 

Jo called out moves while Dean interwove between the women to correct the stance of a young scullery maid. The Hunters had done a great deal of good for the people of Paris since the Archbishop founded the group in the days shortly before Dean’s birth. Recent Hunter activities had been progressing smoothly. Public approval had never been higher. The poor were well looked after and enough guardsmen were Hunter sympathizers that extortion and excessive force were becoming discouraged within the force itself. 

The time was ripe to remove the Judge from office, for the people to be free of his heavy handed and oppressive rulings. Despite the opportune timing, Hunter King John Winchester refused to let Dean in on the details of the upcoming usurpation. 

Three days had passed since he left Notre Dame and the battered bellringer who resided within. John had publicly praised Dean for making such a grand escape. Privately, the tone had been much different.

John was ashamed his son hadn’t left Notre Dame sooner.

John was disappointed his son didn’t take his responsibilities more seriously.

John was disgusted that Dean needed extra _ motivation _ to get his ass back to the Court of Miracles because _ what good was he to the mission _ if he whiled away his time.

John had lied.

Three days and John had yet to clue Dean in on pressing plans or missions or… anything really. 

Dean had abandoned Castiel for a lie.

Unable to return to the cathedral in the heavily patrolled Île de la Cité, falling into old routines became easy if uncomfortable. There was a persistent itch beneath Dean’s skin, a desire telling him to go retrieve Cas and punch the daylights out of the Judge all in the same instant. 

Dean’s thoughts were with Cas when Sam burst in red faced and chest heaving 

“Dean!” he breathlessly called out, headed hurriedly to his brother’s side.

“Sammy?! What’s wrong?! Why are you here?!” Dean’s eyes skimmed quickly over his brother, checking him for injury

“I’m fine but we need to leave. Do you know where dad is?”

Dean leveled Sam a confused stare as if to say _ are you sure you’re alright? _ before responding.

“Yeah Sammy, he’s at Court. What’s going on, you swore you’d never speak to him again.”

Sam nodded, still winded he huffed out, “There’s no time, we need to go now.”

A long look towards Jo who raised a hand in acknowledgement and the brothers were off through a secret door to the Court of Miracles for an audience with the Hunter King.

*****

“A witch? For real!?”

“Yes. Dean, he wants to burn you alive.”

“Just when you thought the bastard couldn’t be more evil…” Dean stared emptily ahead. A tense silence fell over the small room as the three men mulled over Sam’s news. 

Sam sat slumped at one end of a table. He pressed his nails aimlessly into a pile of soft wax that had dripped from a candle. John Winchester’s eyes gleamed obsidian in from the shadows where he leaned and the weak candle light could not reach. 

Suddenly, Dean was up and pacing the floor, hands fisted at his sides. 

“We could use this. I’ll be bait, lure him and his supporters out so we can-”

“Absolutely not.” Predatory and powerful, John moved across the room from one inky pool of shadow to another, the cloaked in shadow never leaving him. 

“Dad, I know-”

“Sit down boy. I said no. We have a plan and we will stick to it.”

Sam perked up at that, “Plan? What is it?”

John turned his glare towards his youngest and took one step into the light. “A traitor has no need for that knowledge?” He sneered.

Hoping to intercept before a fight could break out, Dean changed the course of his pacing to stand before his father.

“If you can’t trust him, then tell me.”

John’s shoulders lost a bit of their stiffness, his voice tired, “Out of the question now. It’s too dangerous to let you anywhere near this mission.”

“Damit Dad!”

“No Dean. The Judge doesn’t just want you dead, he wants to see you burn as a public spectacle for his deranged fantasies. Pack tonight, I’m sending you to work under Rufus in the country. You won’t be a part of this.”

Before Dean could protest, a clattering and chorus of screams rang out. Each man drew a weapon from his person and looked towards the door of John’s war room. Bobby burst in, greeted by three Winchesters’ blades pointed at his throat, heart, and gut.

“It’s just me you idjits! Zachariah’s men are here!”

“Damnit! How did they find us? After all these years!” John roared. Turning to his sons he held them in a fiery glower, “Don’t tell me you boys were followed!” 

The brothers were pale in the candle light. 

“The girls” Dean breathed out and turned to Sam who looked pale and sick.

“We will discuss this later.” John grit out. “Take the east exit. We’ll reconvene at Ellen’s place at sunrise.”

Sam, still shocked, gaped at his father, “But dad-”

Pushing Sam aside, John gripped Dean’s arm tightly before saying, “Dean take your brother, fast as you can – don’t look back.”

Dean nodded grimly before grabbing Sam’s wrist and pulling his brother towards the eastern exit.

The Court of Miracles was a series of elaborate tunnels and natural caves stretching beneath the city. Dean envisioned the Court as a fox’s den – a retreat for the cunning – while Sam felt more like a rat beneath the floorboards of Paris. 

They took endless twists and turns before Sam yanked his wrist from Deans. 

“What the hell Sam? Dad told us to get out!”

“And leave everyone back there?”

“Sam there’s nothing we can do for them, not if they’re already captured.”

“You hear that Dean? Hunters are fighting. _ Fighting_. They aren’t captured. You and I are fighters, aren’t we? The two of us in the fray, we could tip the scale.”

“Sammy, Dad said-”

“I know what Dad said Dean! Ignore an order for once in your life!” Sam was yelling now, face pinched and stance immovable. 

Dean ran a hand over his face as he caught his breath. He had two options: 1) knock Sam unconscious and drag his brother to the east exit or 2) join the fight and hope they won. 

Maybe there was really only one option. Sam always got his way.

“Alright Sammy, we’ve got some hunting to do.”

*****

A bowl of soup teetered on Castiel’s legs. He had meant to do as Dean asked but leaving the bell tower proved to be a challenge. Thankfully the Archbishop was willing to work with him. Three days had passed and Castiel ventured down as far as the first staircase landing. This was a good spot, just far up enough that the staircase turned and no one could see him from the landing. Castiel lazily stirred the soup, wishing he’d made more progress. The stone stairs were frigid beneath him. Dean’s amulet sat warm against Castiel’s skin, nestled beneath the collar of his worn tunic.

Hushed voices at the base of the staircase broke Castiel from his thoughts. Normally he’d ignore the whispers uttered in the cathedral as they were words meant for God alone. One voice however Castiel recognized as the Archbishops. The other said a magic word: Dean. 

After placing his soup securely on the steps, Cas leaned his body closer to the voices.

“Slow down Jo.” That was the Archbishop. He sounded worried. “Now what happened?”

“Zachariah came with any guardsman loyal to him and his crooked money. The girls had just gone home for the night but I was cleaning up for Bobby. I saw them all enter through the carpenter’s entrance.” The second voice, a young woman by the sound of it, stopped for a shuddering breath. “I followed close behind the group, there was no way I could warn those in the Court, the smith’s entrance would have taken too long to get to!”

“This wasn’t your fault Jo”

Castiel heard the woman sniffle. Her voice was thick when she continued, “Yeah, whatever. Anyway, I… They were talking you know, the guys at the back of the crowd. Sounded like Zachariah had known for a while now that Sam is John’s boy. Sam came in earlier while Dean and I were training the girls and he looked pretty panicked about something. Took Dean and left for the Court. I’d wager anything that bastard judge had the idjit followed.”

“So the Court was raided by Zachariah and his men?” The Archbishop prompted.

In his mind’s eye, Castiel imagined the woman nodded. “Yeah Jim, raided. Lots of people fought back. Plenty got away. We thought we had a chance there for a while when Sam and Dean showed up.”

“How did you get out?”

A wet chuckle - more of a sob and then softly, “Dean came up with this stupid plan. The self-sacrificing idiot. He, Sam, and about ten other Hunters held their ground while everyone else got away. I wanted to stay but Dean told me to come here. Said you needed to know.”

“You’ve done well Jo.”

“Wait. I… I didn’t go. Not right away. You gotta hear this part to Jim. There was this crevice in the tunnel, like they thought about making a branch in the tunnel system there but changed their minds. I crammed myself in there and listened. Zachariah ordered every they captured to be taken to the Palace of Justice. But He…. He wanted Dean separate from the others. He wanted him brought to his office. And…” Jo’s voice tapered off.

“What is it Jo?” Castiel could hear with fear lacing the Archbishop’s words.

“Then Sam howled, like he wailed and cursed. I’ve never heard anything like it. Not from him. He seemed convinced that the Judge had something terrible planned for Dean. They must have knocked him out cause Sam stopped really suddenly and Dean started cursing them out in that cold deadly voice he does when he’s really pissed… What de we do Pastor Jim?”

Castiel didn’t hear the Bishop’s response. Three things were clear.

Dean was in trouble. 

Trouble bad enough to make the Archbishop worry. 

Castiel had been foolish to believe in Dean’s promises. 

On silent feet, Castiel made his way back to the bell tower. The air around him dropped twenty degrees. The ghosts of Notre Dame awakening at his unconscious call.

Every candle in the cathedral blew out simultaneously.

*****

Dean wasn’t scared. He was livid. 

Wrists and ankles chained to a leg of a massive solid oak table in the Judges personal study, he watched the villain strut in front of a massive stone fireplace. The flames shooting high behind Zachariah seemed appropriate in Dean’s eyes. 

The Judge turns towards Dean, a manic gleam in his eye as he surveys his captive.

“Why don’t you have a picture painted? It’ll last longer.” Dean quipped, enjoying as the giddy nature of Zachariah’s pose swiftly transitioned into anger.

“Make your jokes while you can witch. We will see who is laughing once you are faced with hellfire.”

Dean whistled long and low “Wow, you honestly think I’m some kind of sorcerer.”

“God has gifted me with this truth. Why else would the people see you as _ righteous_. You who mocks the law. Whereas I, a just and lawful man, am painted as a villain. This is witchcraft plain and clear and by your hand! Who has more to gain than you, Deano?” 

There is no point in debating a delusional man but Dean never was very good at holding his tongue. 

“Oh I don’t know, maybe it’s how you consistently charge raped women with adultery or prostitution while their _ rapist _ gets off scott-free. Or maybe how when the people are starving despite working for a taskmaster you refuse to let them protest for higher wages!”

“I follow both the laws of God and man to the letter. Those women broke the commandments. The workers are free to find other employment. These are the laws we all agree to uphold by right of our birth and baptism.”

“How can you expect us to blame victims and stay lawful when children starve. You claim to follow God’s laws but tell me, was it not Christ himself who challenged the ways of his own society and dinned among sinners?”

Zachariah slapped Dean hard across the face. “Enough! I will not listen to your serpent tongue!”

Dean looked up at the Judge with ice and cold fury, a drop of blood beading on his split lip. 

“Is that how you treated Cas? Hit him and demand his silence? How does torturing an orphaned child make you righteous? Was it God’s law of man’s that gave you the _ right _?” Dean spat blood at the judge’s feet.

Zachariah looked confused for a moment before he registered what Dean was asking. 

“Castiel? The boy is demon spawn. I wouldn’t expect you to understand but he is evil at his very core. I give him penance and chance upon chance to do God’s work.”

“You Bastard!” Dean screamed and lunged for the Judge, chains digging into his wrists and ankles. “Cas is a thousand times the man you will ever be!”

Zachariah knelt down and held his hand up flat. Dean steeled himself to prevent flinching from another smack. Instead of a blow, the Judge placed his hand gently to the tender side of Dean’s face, cupping it. Softly he spoke, staring searchingly into the green of Dean’s eyes while Dean attempted to pull away from the judge’s caress.

“You think I would listen to you, a servant of the devil, when you claim the innocence of demon spawn. Tsk.” With a thumb, Zachariah tenderly swept the blood welling from Dean’s lower lip.

“You want to find some demon spawn, look in the _ fucking _ mirror Zachariah. I think you'll like what you see.”

The Judge tilted his head without breaking his gaze from the deep emerald pools he had lost himself into. 

“Oh Winchester, such bitter words from such sweet lips.” 

As the judge leaned in to steal a kiss from his captive, Dean took the opportunity to slam his head forward. The head-butt caused the Judge to scramble backward, precariously close to the large hungry flames in the gaping fireplace.

Dean watched with dismay as the other man regained his balance just as the flames reached out longingly for his long black robes. 

“That was for Castiel you creep!”

Wrath shook the judge’s body as he wheeled back onto Dean.

“Witch, you dare to try your tricks on me here and then deny my desires?!”

“What the hell are you talking about?!” Dean spat back, “I have no magic!”

“I can expect nothing but lies from one who serves the dark. Never fear, soon I will watch you burn and cleansing fire will rid this plane of your wicked sorcery! At dusk tomorrow we shall light holy flames in your flesh.”

As the Judge stormed out he heard Winchester utter two mournful phrases: “Forgive me Cas. I think I’ll have to break my promise after all.”

*****

Clouds loomed ominously over the cathedral as Zachariah thundered closer on a large black stallion. Pulling hard on the reigns, he sidled up to and glared hard at the bell tower.

The way was unobstructed as the judge stormed into the sanctuary and marched to the staircase. _ God makes way for the righteous! _ Zachariah’s lips pulled into a wicked grin. He found the bell ringer curled up under a quilt near the largest of the cathedral’s bells. An ever changing bluish haze surrounded the boy; a cloud of chilled breath colored Zachariah’s every exhale. 

“Is this how you greet your Master?” Zachariah asked, not bothering to hide his annoyance or anger.

The young man shuddered at the sound of Zachariah’s voice but made no move to respond, encouraging rage to build within the judge’s gut. 

“Winchester told me how you helped him escape,” Zachariah lied smoothly, “He played you whelp, used you.”

Castiel’s reply came so softly that Zachariah hardly believed he’d uttered a word, “Dean Winchester is a good man.” The words seemed more a personal affirmation than a rebuttal. For Zachariah however, the sentiment was enough to confirm what he had suspected. 

Zachariah leaned over to grab Castiel’s thin wrist and yank the younger man upwards.

“Let go of me!” Castiel pulled back.

The wind picked up and the bells began ringing on their own in an uproarious cacophony.

“You have forgotten your place!” 

“LET GO!” Castiel cried out as his wrist broke within Zachariah’s grip

A specter of a roman centurion appeared between them, pushing Zachariah back hard.

Stumbling away from the demon child, Zachariah sneered at Castiel, “What have you done now boy? What’s this?”

“_ This _,” the roman ghost spat back almost gleefully, “is a long time coming if you ask me!”

The centurion drew his sword high, the blade looking far too real, too sharp to be anything other than deadly.

“Balthazar No!” Castiel’s whisper was oh so small, nearly lost to the raging winds and clattering of bells within the tower, but power filled each syllable and the ghost faded from view before the blade could fall.

“I should have known you would betray me! You dare summon ghosts from hell’s gates to threaten me! To _ assault _ me?! There is wickedness in you!”

With each hit the winds died down until the bells stopped ringing altogether. It was only the sound of fists on skin and bone that rang throughout the bell tower as the judge endeavored to save Castiel from the wickedness within.

_ Within whom? _ Dean’s voice sounded in Castiel’s mind before his vision faded and he was surrounded by painless darkness.

*****

The gentle ministrations of large hands and throbs of pain woke Castiel. He was on the floor in a dank room. Unfamiliar sounds floated to his ears: screaming, crying, the mad rambles of an old man, the stony silence of hundreds of others. Castiel could not place where in the cathedral he was.

“Hey man, you with me?” 

The voice was soft and deep but not so deep as Dean’s. 

A stranger!? 

Shock spurred Castiel to move swiftly, backing himself up until a wall pressed against his back. Pain flared across his body forcing him to clench his teeth, pull his broken wrist close to his chest, and let loose no more than a small whimper through clenched teeth.

The man silhouetted was kneeling a few feet in front of Castiel with his hands raised; his body language open and nonthreatening. After a moment, the room grew more defined as Castiel’s eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. The two men inhabited a very small space, lit by moonlight streaming in through the single tiny barred window and contained one exit: a barred door with no handle. The sunset steeped the sky in a deep red which could be seen through the window

“They really did a number on you, huh?” the tall man spoke again, drawing Castiel’s attention. Castiel’s eyes grew wide as he recognized the man: Captain of the Guards Samuel Winchester. Dean’s brother.

Sam shifted a bit nervously from where he was kneeling, unnerved by Castiel’s unwavering stare. 

“I uh, I think you’re bleeding on your side. I can’t do much for your wrist but I could patch your side for you if you don’t mind taking your shirt off.”

There was no hint of an order from Sam, only the desire to help. Castiel nodded once sharply and with his good arm, he worked to lift his torn tunic from his aching body. 

Sam gasped audibly, eyes fixed on Castiel’s chest. Looking down, it quickly became evident that it was not Castiel but Dean’s bronze amulet which pressed close to Castiel’s skin that had caused the younger Winchester’s shock. 

“Where did you get that?” Sam demanded somewhat harshly.

Castiel fought the urge to curl in on himself and quake before the Captain. Instead, he gripped the pendent defensively and replied in a gravelly voice, “Dean gave it to me.” Castiel hoped his eyes brokered no disagreement. 

Sam sat back on his heels in sudden realization, his head bowed in defeat. 

“You're the bell ringer… damn. This is all my fault-” he began to choke out. “I get Dean, myself, and twenty other Hunters imprisoned. Now I’ve gotten you dragged into this mess too.”

“Imprisoned?” Castiel’s voice sounded hollow in the dank room. “Imprisoned where?”

Stirred from his self-loathing, Sam blinked owlishly at Castiel, “The Palace of Justice.”

Castiel felt sick and unsteady. The heavy air of the prison cell refused to enter his lungs. Choking in gasp and all that came out was a whine of, “No. No no no no nonononono.” 

His heart pounded as he frantically made the sign of the cross over his body again and again.

A broad hand slotted behind his neck, stilling his hands and demanding his attention.

“Talk to me Cas, it’s Cas right?” Castiel struggled to make eye contact with Sam’s concerned gaze

“Hallowed ground.” He managed to stutter out. “I need to be on hallowed ground. _ Dangerous _”. 

“Hey look, I know you grew up in a church but the rest of us spend plenty of time off holy land, you’ll be fine” Castiel’s head shaking cut Sam short.

“It’s me.” The bell ringer whispered, the air too thin and Sam’s shadowy form becoming fuzzier at the edges, “I’m dangerous. Unclean.”

Where Castiel had expected revulsion, Sam responded quite differently. Pulling Cas closer into an admittedly awkward hug due to Castiel’s injuries, Sam said the unimaginable:

“I don’t believe that for a second Cas. You must be someone special. Dean thought so and I trust Dean.”

Master had always said he was too dangerous, that he needed to stay in the Cathedral, on hallowed ground to protect all of Paris... Yet Master had thrown Castiel in the Palace of Justice! Master _knew_ the danger... unless... unless he _wasn't_. 

Dean had been right all along.

Sam let go from the hug, chilled air pressing in around Castiel once again where Sam’s skin had been warm. Sam looked ready to cry, eyes red and laden with unfallen tears. Sam busied himself with tending to Castiel’s side which bled lazily while he spoke.

“They’re gonna burn him, Cas. They’re going to set my brother on fire. Zachariah’s convinced he’s a witch. He put us in this particular cell for a reason.” With that, Sam gestured miserably towards the barred window. 

Once Sam was done bandaging his side using what appeared to be strips from Sam’s own tunic, Castiel rose slowly to peak out the window. His blood chilled at the sight of a pyre which had been erected in the public square. They had built a pyre and were now coating the logs and bundles of thrush with accelerant.

“He wants us to watch.” Sam’s voice cracked.

Castiel clenched his good hand into a fist so hard he felt the bones creaking and grinding. 

“Not if we stop it.” Moving carefully away from the window, mindful of his injuries, Castiel asked in an unnervingly calm voice, “Is there any way to leave this cell?”

Sam stood, a bit baffled by Cas’ change in demeanor, and approached the single exit. He assessed the door with a knowledgeable eye. “Not from in here. The lock is built to be inaccessible from the inside. The hinges are fused at the ends so popping those off isn’t an option either.”

“Is there a Hunter with a knack for picking locks who passed away recently?”

Sam swung about towards Cas, “What kind of question is that?”

“_Is there?_”

Cas’ unyielding gaze was difficult to hold. Sam leaned against the cell wall and hung his head. “Uh, yeah. Jo was telling me about one of her friends. Her name… uh... Krissy! Her dad taught her lockpicking just before he died last year. Krissy… She was a damn natural despite being just a kid. She died over on la Rue Chanoinesse trying to stop some of Zachariah’s men. They… they just held her funeral three weeks ago.”

Castiel waited for Sam to finish before he settled himself on the floor and called out to young Krissy with everything he had. Cold sweat beaded his forehead and his wounds all screamed, but none of that mattered as the sun dipped further in the sky. 

Just as his forehead began to pound and the pressure behind his eyes ached brutally, he felt her arrival.

“Well well well, if it isn’t Captain Winchester. What do you want Sam? Thought you were too good for Hunters these days.” A teenage brunette stood semi-transparent in the middle of their small room, hands on her hips.

Mouth agape, Sam scrambled to his feet, shooting scared looks between Krissy and Cas. Before he could speak however, Castiel cut in.

“My name is Castiel. Please listen closely. I have pulled you from where you rested and I cannot hold you in this plane for long. I believe we have a mutual friend in Dean Winchester. There is a plot to kill Dean, burn him as the sun finishes setting. You come highly recommended as a lock pick, any chance you could open that door for us?”

The teen’s suspicious eyes ran over Castiel’s thin form. She then moved her gaze to the ceiling and bit her lip in contemplation. 

"Died with some hair pins so I’ve got plenty to work with but I'm new to this death thing. Not sure I’m material enough for one of my pins to work.”

“I will lend you strength.” His tone matched the serious glint in his eyes. She took ahold of Castiel’s hand as he stretched it out towards her and smirked prettily before vanishing in a burst of light. 

“The hell?!” Sam exclaimed as Castiel slumped against the wall, winded.

“Precisely what I had thought until Dean insisted my abilities were more aligned with Heaven’s ministrations.”

Whatever remark Sam may have come back with was halted by the sound of scratching near the door. Within seconds the door flew open and Krissy stood there smugly. 

“Well done!” Cas exhaled while trying to stand. He stumbled briefly but was steadied by warm hands on one arm and cool spectral hands at the other. Both Krissy and Sam met him with concerned expressions. 

“I will be alright, thank you both.” Castiel favored each of them with a gracious half smile. 

“Now what?” Krissy asked, her body already losing definition.

“We’ll need the other Hunter’s help if we hope to get out of here with Dean.” Sam’s face was grim yet determined.

“Sam, find the keys and set the other Hunter’s free. Krissy, if you could, please go round up the other Hunter’s ghosts who reside here at the Palace.” Krissy disappeared at Cas’ directions. 

“What about you?” Sam asked, still holding firmly onto Castiel’s arm as if he too might disappear without a moment’s notice. 

“I must find my Master.” Pulling his arm from Sam’s hold, Castiel limped with purpose out of the cell.

*****

Zachariah proved easy to locate. Castiel followed his ears and the angry calls of a great crowd. The Judge stood before a loud and angry gathering of Parisians reading out a list of Dean's transgressions for which he was sentenced to be burned. The crowd however disagreed. They called for the young man’s release and pressed against the line of guards. 

A smaller group of guardsmen were busily tying up a belligerent Dean, clad in a smock of white linen, to a pole sticking out of the top of the pyre.

“Stop this” The small plea broke forth from Castiel’s lips, absorbed by the roar of the crowd. 

Zachariah then took hold of a torch from a retainer and made for the pyre. 

Panic surged in Castiel along with his power and he called out a second time, “STOP THIS!”

The crowd fell silent and all turned to face him. Castiel’s frame shook with exhaustion and pain but an aura of blue swarmed about him, flashes of light and shadow intermixed. Souls clung to the young man whose voice could command them. 

“Castiel.” The Judge’s voice rang out short and clipped through the silence of the square. “Kneel boy.” The torch was forgotten on the pyre where the accelerant began to catch. Thick black smoke streaked upward. 

The Judge stalked toward Castiel.

Unable to deny years of training, the bell ringer crashed to his knees at his master’s command, fatigue and bone-deep aching preventing him from regaining his footing.

“You are as insolent as your father!” Zachariah’s mad voice was loud in the quiet of the shocked crowd. “He denied me time and time again, refusing to annex his lands and the lands of those in his precious collective. Excuses about free will and people’s choice! The fool! I warned him it would all burn if he did not agree. And burn he did, all of them did, save you. You worthless little mongrel!”

Shocked by his Master’s words, Castiel’s hold over the spirits that surrounded him failed and he all but collapsed when Zachariah’s fist hit him brutally upside his head. 

“I made a mistake in not killing you then. I will correct that error.” 

Arms slotted beneath Castiel’s arms. “Place him on the pyre with the other one.”

Castiel’s body moved and his head felt like it was floating, or perhaps drowning. He remembered drowning, back in the frigid November river with Gabe and Anna. 

_ But the river had not been hot. _

A great source of heat grew nearer and nearer. 

_ And water wasn’t hard. _

Something rough and hard was beneath his chest now that the guards had pitched him up onto the raised pyre. The world swam in and out of focus.

The crowd had renewed their angry cries but Castiel’s ears picked out the only voice that mattered. 

“Cas!” Dean’s voice rasped amid rising smoke, “Hey buddy, can you look at me? Come on Cas, roll over and look at me. _ Damn it _!”

Smoke curled around Castiel as the pyre continued to catch. Without warning there was searing pain across Cas’ back. Zachariah had thrown a second torch up on top of the pyre where it had landed on Castiel’s prone back. 

From the corner of his eye, Castiel caught the flicker of a frantic Krissy who tore fiercely at the bonds Dean sagged against. Dean’s violent coughs grew weaker and farther apart, suffocating on the smoke all about him. 

“I-I can’t! I’m not solid enough! Please!” Krissy’s panicked words cut through the floating confusion and Castiel tried to keep his fraying focus on the ghost girl.

Even with his help, undoing the knots took too long. By the time he was free, Dean’s lungs were starved of air. He fell limp beside Castiel. 

Gazing upon the dying saint, there was but one thought in Castiel’s mind: _ Grip him tight. _

And so he did. Cas wrapped his thin arms around Dean’s broader frame from behind. Ignoring as best he could the agony of his head, wrist, and back, Cas rolled himself and Dean off of the raised pyre to the dirt below.

The air was clearer below the smoke. Castiel shuffled his body so that he could see Dean’s eyes. Dean's face however was slack, his eyelids shut, his form immobile.

“Dean?” Castiel’s voice crackled. Krissy reappeared at his side, eyes sad and apologetic. Dean wasn’t waking. He didn’t appear to be breathing. 

A wordless cry ravaged Castiel’s dry throat as he fell forward and gripped Dean close to his chest. 

Everyone left Castiel but Dean had promised to come back.

_ Dean had promised. _

*****

Sam and the other hunters poured out of the Palace to find a chaotic scene before them. Castiel was being dragged to the lit pyre where his brother fought hard against tight bonds and was losing the battle for clean air. The guardsmen were struggling to hold back what appeared to be a mob all calling for the Judges head. Zachariah lobbied a torch into the midst of the pyre and a pain filled scream caused Sam’s heart to stutter. The Hunters rushed forward in sync with the townspeople while Sam made for the pyre. He could scarcely make out Krissy’s spectral form waring with the ropes that held his brother. His legs pounded but the pyre was too far and the fire too hot. 

A burning form rolled out from the flames. The mass turned into two: one moving and the other still as death. 

_ No _! Sam thought as he charged towards his brother. A feral, inhuman, heart wrenching cry broke forth from Castiel and a wall of freezing air blew Sam backwards off of his feet. 

Sam scrambled upright and was met with a swirling howling vortex of ghosts spiraling skyward for hundreds of feet. An impenetrable barrier. 

“Cas?!” Sam called into the fray, throwing himself against the wall of ghosts and urgently needing to check on his brother. “CAS!”

*****

Cool air stirred Dean’s hair and coaxed his constricted lungs into breathing once more. He leaned into the figure beside him and coughed hard before breathing in sweet clean air. It was then that Dean noticed the strange light bathing them and the surprising lack of sound, as if cotton were stuffed in his ears. For a ten meter radius around them ghosts flew in a perfect circle. They rose directly upward in a pillar all the way to the clouds.

Dean turned towards the mass beside him and found Cas looking somber but still as a statue. The bell ringer was kneeling, facing directly forward as if zoned out and had one hand clenching Dean’s singed tunic tightly. His eyes were open but glowing hot bright blue-white. 

Stiffly Dean moved to stroke Castiel’s shoot covered hair and lay a warm hand gently onto Cas’ stoic features.

“Cas,” Dean rasped, “It’s okay. You did it buddy. You got us out. You can let go now. Please Cas.”

Dean kept up a steady litany of words for what felt like hours until he found the right words:

“Cas I know you’re in there. I know you can hear me. Cas, it’s me. We’re family. Buddy, I need you.”

The unnatural light streaming from Castiel’s eyes faded slowly and the wind began to die down.

Castiel blinked in dazed confusion before finding Dean’s eyes, still red from smoke but with irises that gleamed green in the ghostly light around them. 

“Dean?” he whispered.

“Hey Cas.” Dean hugged Castiel tightly and watched over Cas’ shoulder as the column of souls dissipated with the last beams of sunlight.

Sam came running forward as Cas slumped unconscious into Dean’s arms.

*****

~~ Epilogue ~~

Cas fondly smiled at Dean who is still asleep despite pre-dawn light making its way into the small bright room they shared. To avoid the faint light and remain asleep a while longer, Dean shifted over in sleep causing his shirt to bunch up and reveal a shiny red burn scar on his shoulder. Cas mused not for the first time that the burn looked a bit like a handprint. He gently reached out and laid his hand over the scar. Cas’ eyebrows lifted in amazement to see his hand fit rather perfectly over the raised skin. 

Dean stirred and glanced over, gently laying his hand on top of Cas’.

“Hunh, look at that, a perfect fit.”

“I’m sorry Dean, I didn’t mean to wake you.” Cas casted his eyes down and tried to pull his hand away. 

Dean held on tightly and looked directly into Cas’ eyes. Cas would never stop loving the sensation of his eyes meeting another’s, something he had seldom done when the Judge had ruled his life. The green depths of Dean’s eyes seemed to gleem in the morning sunshine. Breathtaking. 

“Hey, there’s nothing to apologize for.” Dean tugged lightly on Cas’ hand and pulled Castiel close to his body. Cas let his own arms find their way around Dean’s chest and held on tightly, the warm copper of Dean's amulet around his neck now pressed between them. This was another new aspect of Cas’ life that he wouldn’t mind doing forever. Dean gave the best hugs. 

When Cas pulled back after their embrace Dean set his curled fingers gently beneath Cas’ chin, turning the former bell ringer’s face towards his own. 

“You’re up early.” Dean prompted, a question in his concerned expression, _ Are you okay? _

Castiel’s abuser may have been out of his life for over a year now but Castiel still faced a long road to recovery. He had his good and bad days. Days when he couldn’t bring himself to sit in a chair or was unable to shake a phantom chill that made his bones ache. Some mornings Dean woke up alone and would run to the local church only to find Castiel cowering in a corner murmuring about hallowed ground and refusing to leave. There was one awful morning where he’d woken up exhausted way out in one of the local farm fields having spent the night sleep-walking, scared and desperately looking for the bells which needed to be rung. 

This day however, Cas was determined for it to be good.

“I’m just excited for Sam’s visit.” Cas half lied. He _ was _ excited to see Sam again and meet the new lawyer’s bride-to-be. It was nightmares of flames, however, that had woken Castiel. 

“Yeah me too. Jessica sounds great.” Dean paused, running a hand through Cas’ tousled hair. “But really Cas, what woke you up?” Castiel’s face twitched slightly. 

“Is it your wings?” Dean knew him so well.

While the scar on his arm and a persistent cough were Dean’s souvenirs from their night on the pyre, Castiel had been far more burned. Across his back where the second torch had fallen, Castiel had a massive branching system of burn scars. Although he’d never seen it with his own eyes – the scars being on his back and all – Dean asserted that they looked like cascading feathers of wings held close to his body. His angel wings, Dean called them. 

Dean reached an arm around and began to massage the tight scar tissue. He moved his fingers with practiced ease and hummed softly, little puffs of breath ruffling Castiel’s hair gently. Perhaps he could return to sleep for a few hours.

*****

Life in the country was a blessed one. Shaken up by the night on the pyre, the duo had bid farewell to Paris and returned to the surrounding countryside where Castiel had spent the first four years of his life. Following the incident, the Archbishop had approached a bedridden Castiel, Dean at his side, with a heavy purse. 

The Archbishop had explained to them that the judge was deceased. The people of Paris had held a trial for him over seen by the Hunter King and found him guilty of corruption and murder. Zachariah’s confession regarding the burnings from eighteen years prior had been heard by many gathered to protest Dean’s burning. Needless to say, the judge had left a large estate and no heir to inherit. When Castiel refused the money, Dean convinced him to take only what was owed to him as the bell ringer for nine years. 

With the funds they had built a small home and a life together. Dean ran a tavern and Castiel quietly raised bees and wandered the countryside. On Castiel’s first birthday in their new life, Dean bought him a smart blond mare by the name of Grace. The beast had a mind of her own and they soon learned why Dean had been able to haggle the horse’s price so low. Castiel however was patient and forged a bond with the horse who would listen to no other. 

Dean came home riding a beauty of a black mare he called Impala with the intent of joining Castiel on his countryside ventures. Most mornings they would ride over the grassy hills together before the Tavern was slated to open. 

They forwent their ride this day though in order to prepare for Sam’s visit. Their home was small yet colorful and warm as the cathedral had never been for Castiel. 

It was near noon when Sam and his fiance Jessica could be seen riding in on a tall proud gelding who strut with a smooth gait. The young couple was worn from a two day journey out of Paris but cheerful in spite of their riding blisters. 

Jessica turned out to be quite the cook and happiness seemed to radiate off the young couple in an infectious manner.

“So what are you plans Sammy, now that you’re done with school?” Dean asked as he refilled Sam’s glass with a homemade mead.

Sam chuckled, “I uh, actually I was thinking of working in the legal system and maybe be the next judge heading up the Palace of Justice.”

“Your service would be quite the improvement.” Castiel gifts Sam with a small smile of approval.

Dean nearly spews the mead he was drinking, “Not like he’s got much competition! I like it Sam! Big dreams, I know you’ll make it.”

They toast to the future Judge of Paris before Dean realizes one potential pitfall. “Hey Sam, as Judge how do you plan to handle the Hunters?”

Following the trial of Judge Zachariah, the Hunters had taken up a more up front role in Parisian politics with John at the helm. Their initial mission of removing Zachariah had been seen through to its end and now the organization lacked direction. Jo still led defense classes. Many Hunters still made sure the poorest Parisians remained fed and sheltered. All in all though, the group was disbanding. 

Sam said as much. “I’ve no doubt Dean that should the Hunters be needed again they will rise to the occasion. Caleb will more than likely take over keeping watch of the city once Dad decides to retire seeing as neither you nor I are all that interested.”

Dean nodded but the corners of his mouth turned downward. The Hunters had been his family, his lifestyle for so long that it hurt to hear the group would soon be no more. Perhaps he should have stayed, helped hold things together and help the group discover a new purpose.

A thin yet strong hand took hold of Dean’s own and squeezed gently. Dean’s emerald eyes met Cas’ sapphire ones.

That’s right. He realized. He had all the purpose he needed right here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to post in it's completion! It was a story I wrote mostly years and years ago and was no longer happy with much of the writing. I truly appreciate your patience and hope you enjoyed!!!
> 
> Please know that all feedback is loved and appreciated. <3


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